Yamiji
by aldkhfa142
Summary: Sequel to Kokuhaku. Seven years after his brother's disappearance, Son Goten decides it has been time enough. He embarks on a quest for the one thing he cannot have...
1. Stray Dogs

Notes: _This is the sequel to Kokuhaku, an AU in which Son Gohan becomes a Majin. Ludlu and Saab are characters of my own creation, who served as soldiers for Babidi. Well... I'm not going into a full-blown summary. I'd suggest reading KH first._

_As far as timelines... After the first section of this chapter (the flashback, which is in italics) the story goes to modern time, which is seven years after the end of Kokuhaku. _

Disclaimer: _I do not own DBZ. Insert witty variation here.  
_

* * *

Yamiji: Chapter 1  
_Stray Dogs_

* * *

"If given mistakes, would I take them back?  
If erasing them could, if erasing them would  
But would they be the words that I would say?"  
--"The Crowing," Coheed & Cambria 

_He had been buried knee-deep in a section of the storage area, in search of a replacement part for some old antique weapon Padoa wanted. It was a tiny part, in some box which had probably had its label rubbed off among all the other junk thrown into the area. _

_So, cursing to himself, he had rummaged until his hands were raw among the various rubble of the disorganized storage closet, and thus far come up empty. Another glorious day in the life of Ludlu. _

_The roar of engines distracted him from his task after an hour of fruitless rummaging. After waiting for the deafening bellow to subside, he gently slid the door open, and walking out into the broad and echoing hangar – now filled with his master's huge, ancient-class spaceship – gave a passive wave as Babidi himself strode by. The toad didn't notice, but Ludlu withdrew all ugly thoughts before they could escape into the Majin's attention. _

_Dabura, whom he hated even more than his master, was next to depart, with a child in tow. Ludlu looked the newcomer over with boundless curiosity. This was no place for a child; or for anyone with a soul, really. _

Least I don't have that problem, _thought the soldier coldly. _I sold my soul to the devil, yessah.

_His planet had sold him out. Under threat of the organization, no less, and they decided that rather than face their wrath – they would dispense of their strongest fighter. And here, he was nothing, not compared to the other warriors. _

_And now there was a Saiyan among them, if the spiky black hair and pale human appearance was anything to go by. Not the most vicious looking creature, but he expected that would come with time. _

_Even as he thought this the kid said something, something that Dabura obviously didn't agree with. Not that that was ever much. Dabura had killed one of Ludlu's mates a week before; he couldn't even recall the small infraction that had brought it on. He had spent hours scrubbing up the blood. _

_The devilish creature snatched up the boy – already looking bedraggled, his clothes torn and bloody – and swept a punch, gracefully, across the Saiyan's face. The blow resounded through the empty corridor; the boy's head snapped back, far enough and with sufficient vigor that Ludlu expected the poor creature to fall dead. If it had been himself, his neck would have been snapped. _

_But the myth of Saiyan invincibility obviously had some weight to it. Though the child collapsed to the floor, Ludlu couldn't miss the slow rise and fall of its chest. _

_Dabura_ _left. Uneasy, the soldier glanced around the hangar. But it was empty, except for himself and the kid. _

_With slow, careful steps he picked his way through the shelves – edged along the wall past Yakkon's cage – and stooped beside the child. He was even smaller up close, and pale. He seemed to have been dazed by the blow, but as soon as the Saiyan sensed his presence it reawakened to stare him down with a cold, sickly fear. _

_In reassurance, he held out a hand. "Don't worry," he said, hoping it understood Common. It seemed to; it relaxed and placed its energy and focus in getting to its feet. _

_He offered a hand, helping the boy up. "Your name?"_

_It didn't reply, looking at the room around them. _

"_Ludlu," he said, introducing himself bluntly. "Welcome to hell." _

"_Already been there," said the kid in a smooth kid's voice._

"_Truly?_ _Well then, I suppose you should enjoy this place."_

_The Saiyan was silent again. _

_Pui_ _Pui wandered past, having finished some last-minute clean-up on the ship apparently. The vile thing grinned through its thick lips at them both. Ludlu leered back as it said, "Take 'im to his quarters. Cross from Dabura's. So he can keep an eye on him, like." The alien punched Ludlu on the arm in a pathetic attempt at camaraderie. _

"_Walk on," he replied coldly. He didn't bother to mask his feelings for the vile creature. _

_Scowling back with its empty yellow eyes, Pui Pui gave a low "hmph" and stamped off. _

_Ludlu_ _did not like the thing. Never would. Was glad to hear it to be dead, seven years later. _

"_What is this place?" asked the kid at his side. Just as he opened his mouth to speak, another voice cut him off. "A circus."_

_Ludlu_ _nodded to his fellow soldier – Saab, a Kanassan, last of his race. How the telepath had been played into the Majin hands, he didn't know. _

_He grinned. "Yes, just that. We're in the entertainment business."_

_The Saiyan kid's blank, impassive look elicited further detail. _

"_Ever seen the arena?"_

"_Arena, like a fighting arena?"_

"_Yes, of course, you're Saiyan, of course you've seen one. Well – we are the fighters. _You _are. Saab and I, we just help run the place and teach you. This is a training facility, and abode of Majin – namely, Babidi."_

"_I'm half Saiyan," corrected the boy coldly. _

"_Oh, I see. I thought you looked a little soft."_

"_Be still, Ludlu," Saab admonished, but without ire. The talkative Celar obeyed. "You must understand, child. The arena is a place of death, not your Earth's structured martial arts matches."_

_The child looked to him, black eyes endless in their dark surprise. "You fight to the death?"_

"_No," said Ludlu, somber. "_You _do."_

"_I won't kill anyone. Dying is fine," replied the Earthling obstinately. _

_Saab sighed. "You have little choice. Where's his room?"_

"_Across from Master Dabura's," replied Ludlu, grimacing. "They must not trust you much."_

"_Babidi's new pet, most likely," said Saab. _

"_Heh._ _Hear that, Yakkon?" he called. The monster roared; Saab punched him on the arm. "Shut up, idiot." To the kid – who was staring, awed, in the direction of Yakkon's dark cave – he said, "Listen. A word of advice. Resistance isn't just stupid. It won't get you killed. The Majin are the last of the dark magicians, child. They are unafraid of bringing a man's mind to its knees, snapping your will like a twig. The best path is to be silent and obey. Nothing more. If you relish your sanity."_

"_Thank you," said the halfbreed softly. _

"_Take him before Dabura comes looking. I'll find what Padoa wanted."_

_Ludlu_ _made a face. "That telepathy thing creeps me out, Ludlu."_

"_I know." He smiled uncannily. _

"_A telepath?" echoed the child in a polite manner as Ludlu led them into the labyrinthine depths of the palace. _

"_Yeah._ _Last of the Kanassans. Group of your kind destroyed the home planet, wiped 'em all out. He was off-planet at the time."_

"_Not my kind - I'm from Earth. My father…" he stopped. _

"_Earth?"_ _He pronounced the word slowly – it was a strange name in Common. "Never heard of it. You a slave?"_

"_No," replied the boy briskly. _

"_Huh. So how did you get here? Home sell you out for protection?"_

"_I don't know," he replied in a barely audible whisper. _

"_Well Dabura seems to have it out for you. Be careful. And stay out of Babidi's eye. Whatever you do, don't anger _him."

"_Prudent advice, Ludlu._ _Could you walk any slower?" The soldier froze in place, blood chilled to ice, at the sight of Dabura before them. The towering demon smirked as he stammered, "Sorry, sir. Was giving him the tour, sir."_

"_Back to your duties."_

_Ludlu_ _paused as he turned to give a reassuring smile to the kid before walking away._

_It was false, of course. There was nothing reassuring here. _

_He hadn't even gotten the halfbreed's name. No matter; he'd be dead in a few months.

* * *

_

They found an interesting thing on the doorstep that day.

Ludlu had been wandering the halls. There wasn't much to do in the Palace anymore; his old job, training the fighters, had died with Babidi. The new master didn't share the magician's interest in arena fighting. Understandable, of course; unlike their twisted master, the arena had broken him, once. And though he seemed "fixed" – in an eerie image of the toad, no less – that old resentment seemed to continue to flow.

So he wandered, free with breakfast having been cooked and served to the huge estate's 3 measly inhabitants. He glanced out the windows occasionally, at the foreboding expanse of desert – tinted red from a small trace of red phosphorous, an incendiary element. The touch of a match would send up a great wave of flash fire. Thus, the protective spells, fireproof walls, and neat enclosure of the Majin abode.

He came to the front door, a huge oaken thing of fine grain. It was heavy as all, and imbued with a hex that greeted any unwanted visitors with a nasty surprise.

So, when the soldier lugged the door open, he was very surprised to find a _whole_ body lying on the ground.

It was a young one, maybe the age of the halfbreed when he had arrived many years past. And there even was a resemblance; the black hair and pale skin was a shoe-in.

He considered the child thoughtfully. Crouching, he felt for a pulse, and was astounded to feel one. Hearing footsteps behind him, he turned to find his only comrade, a Kanassan known as Saab, staring with a confused expression.

"Looks like they sent another one. When are they gonna learn about that door?" He stepped aside so Saab could get a better view.

"You think anyone believes in magic anymore? Please. They look for signs of trickery. They don't look for the invisible." He scowled at the pathetic creature. "This one's gotten a little farther than the rest, though. His limbs are still attached."

Ludlu grinned, thoughtful. "Whatever shall we do with this one? Mm… We should show it to 'im. I think it'll amuse him. They're just sendin' kids, now. What kind of assassin is this?"

"One with a little Saiyan in him," replied Saab darkly, gesturing towards the tell-tale hair and human appearance. "Retuiken," he spat at the unconscious boy. (1)

"You're one to talk," said Ludlu. He looked amused. "I wonder who is sending these, anyway? You think it's that what's-his-face – that old rival of Babidi's – trying to take his fortune now that he's gone?"

"I doubt there's anything in his will which leaves his estate to _him_."

"…True. Maybe it's debtors, then, trying to collect."

"Debt? How could he be in debt? He won every fight he placed in for four years straight! And we placed in a _lot_ of fights. How else do you expect we get daily deliveries fresh from the capital? You do realize that's thousands of miles away, right?"

"Not to mention they have to use those special hover vehicles, with this sand," said Ludlu thoughtfully. He scuffed at the incendiary grains beneath his feet. "So who then, Psychic?"

"I think it's the organization. They're tired of what they see as a shadow puppet being at the top. They're trying to get rid of him."

"Well good luck with that one." Ludlu swung the door open, and grabbed the unconscious body by the arm. "They obviously don't know this shadow puppet too well." With a grunt, he began to drag the youth inside.

Saab groaned loudly. "What the hell are you doing, Ludlu?"

"I'm taking him inside. I don't care what you say, if the door didn't incinerate him than that must mean something."

"It _means_ he's got a resilient body. Because, as I _said,_ he has got Saiyan in him. Or is a Saiyan. Though I doubt that – all those full-blood bastards are dead, thank the gods."

"Oh, the calm Saab is getting in a fury," teased his comrade, having now disappeared into the building. The Kanaasan made no move to intercept, but merely stood with a scowl stretched across his inhuman features.

He spoke in a bland, disbelieving voice. "You're taking an assassin _closer_ to its target. This defies all logic."

"I don't believe in logic – I believe in _intuition._ You'd know a lot about that, Saab, it's why we're still stuck in this dusty hell-hole isn't it?" Ludlu glared at him, sweating a little as he dragged the amazingly dense body in. The boy's shoes finally cleared the door frame; straightening, Ludlu stared patiently at Saab, waiting for him to close it.

After a moment of cold silence and obvious internal struggling, the psychic finally assented, closing the door behind him while he muttered, "The master isn't going to like this…"

* * *

Finis

* * *

Notes:  
(1) Retuiken – _Common for "murderer"  
_Yamiji - _"dark road" in Japanese_

A/N: _Wow, it's been half-past forever since I've created a new story. Well... here you are. Sequel to Kokuhaku. Decided to start it in the middle, just to be evil. I promise I won't leave you in the dark forever, though. This should be an interesting ride indeed. Kudos to whoever can guess who the kid is? And in case anyone was endlessly confused - the first part, in italics, was a flashback. _That_ Saiyan kid was Gohan. And if you're really, really confused, I'd suggest reading the first part of the trilogy before going to the second._

_Reviews welcome. I shall try to continue the reply-on-the-LJ thing. See my bio for details. And for newcomers, I hope you enjoy! And, if you have to go back and read KH, I apologize for the early crappyness. If anything... grit your teeth and trudge your way through with the knowledge that it does improve a little towards the end... _

_ Thanks for reading, kids._


	2. Sonho Vazio

Notes: _Ohmigod! Skadu finished a chapter! Hide the children… The apocalypse is coming…_

_The title is Portuguese for "empty dream." And the sections which begin with dates are parts of Goten's journal. Just a quick heads' up; I know it might be a little confusing at first. But it's darting between Goku's p.o.v., Goten's journal, and Goten's p.o.v. _

Disclaimer: _Me no own any of these kids. Or Kahlil Gibran. Someday… someday._

* * *

Yamiji: Chapter Two  
_ Sonho Vazio_

* * *

"What difference is there between us, save a restless dream that follows my soul but fears to come near you?"  
-Kahlil Gibran 

_**September 12, 781 A.D.**_

_Father told me to let him die today._

_Not in those exact words, of course. I'm being melodramatic. But, put bluntly, there you have it. After one of our (now rare) spars, he sat down with me and told me to stop chasing after my brother's memory; to just let fate handle it. If he came back, he came back. _

_He told me to let him die._

_How can he be so blind? We're supposed to help those in need, aren't we? Be heroic. If he's as much a hero as everyone else proclaims him to be, why is he leaving his own son to this fate? Someone needs to find him; someone needs to help him. _

_If anything, this makes me even more certain. It's my task to do what they're afraid to do. I'm going to find him, and if I can, I'll save him. It seems like I'm the only one who saw the man behind the monster that day._

_I'm alone in this. Not Trunks, not anyone understands. _Really _understands. This is my quest, and it seems I have to face it alone. _

_I don't know when I'll go, but I think it'll be soon. The dreams are getting worse.

* * *

_There was darkness all around. He pulled his knees close to his chest – feeling like a child again. He wished the shadows would go away. It was too dark to make out anything, but not dark enough to hide the indistinct movements in the gloom…

He held his breath. Something was moving towards him. Something the shape of a man.

Black eyes widened against the dim backdrop.

"Brother?"

* * *

Goku opened his eyes to the sound of rain tapping on the windowsill. It was a gentle sound, a becalming one… Acting as a soporific, the steady beat of the shower began to drag his half-conscious mind back to a state of sleep. But the part of him that was awake swiftly reminded him that he had woken up for something, and not just the drizzle. Gently brushing the sheets aside, he got to his feet. 

His wife was safe at his side, still beautiful in the dim shadows. She shifted in her sleep as he looked over her. She was older, but beautiful. For reasons genetic, time abhorred him; he didn't seem to have aged much at all since he had hit thirty. It was the Saiyan blood, no doubt.

_Chi-chi is fine_, he reminded himself, leaving the unhappy prospect behind. _Not hungry, either._ He smiled to himself in the dark.

He paused at the door, finger poised over the light switch, but he withdrew it after a moment's thought. His eyes could make out the hallway with ease, and there was no need to wake his anxiety-prone wife. She would automatically assume the apocalypse had come if he awoke her in the middle of the night.

Running a calloused hand through thick, stiff hair he glanced around the house, into the kitchen down the hall, but saw nothing out of the ordinary. The martial artist paused in the doorway to his son's room. It had been the _other one's_ room, many many years ago; but Goten had been living in it since birth. That didn't mean the old smell had gone away.

With one hand resting easily against the doorframe he peered into the room, and immediately realized his problem. Goten's bedcovers were thrown in a haphazard pile across the foot of his bed, spilling onto the floor below. And the rest of the bed, save the impression of a body not long missing, was empty.

Goku groaned. His son had been sleepwalking intermittently for months now. Usually he let it pass, but he didn't particularly want the fourteen-year-old getting lost in the middle of a November rain storm. It was too cold and too miserable for sleepwalking (and for sleepwalker chasing), but he found himself pulling on a light jacket and heading for the kitchen door anyway. The door had been left ajar, and rain had splashed across the linoleum.

_Chi-chi will be happy to see that,_ thought Goku wearily. Not even bothering with shoes, he headed out into the elements, gasping at the first splash of icy rain against his feet. The energy within was enough to warm him. He closed the door gently behind him.

He glanced around the misty yard. The rain was falling lightly, but it was enough to confuse the shadows and make everything darker than usual. There was no one within sight.

Reaching out with his sixth sense, now as easy as reaching out with a third hand, he managed to locate the faint cry of his son's chi. Sleeping as he was, it was at its lowest. But the boy was near enough that he could sense it.

_The meadow,_ he decided before he had even begun walking across the soft, muddy grass. _Of course, it's always the meadow…_

Pulling the jacket close against the soggy frigid night, he set out at a leisurely pace towards the forest.

* * *

A grin flashed in the darkness, at him. Try as he might he couldn't sink into the shadows, away from the creature, whoever or whatever it was… But it just grinned and grinned, staring him down, face veiled. 

"You just keep searching and searching," a voice he hated rasped. "Can't find him, can you?"

The creature moved forward in a single fluid movement. A frigid hand grabbed his wrist and he pulled away in fright - shivers wracked his spine. The fingers held tight, hard and clammy against his own feverish skin. The voice was only a few inches away, now. He could smell the foul breath of the _toad._

"Come now, boy. You know where the answer lies."

"_You're not him,_" he whispered throatily, more to himself than the monster in front of him.

The creature continued to grin and, shifting his grip, applied pressure on his hand until it curled into a fist. His voice took on an ethereal, deep tone. "_Fight me._"

* * *

Goku considered the sleeping boy with puzzlement amidst the sea of rain. His chi was fluctuating, though he continued to sleep. 

_A sleepwalker, and a sleepfighter, now?_ Even as he watched, the boy twisted underneath the pine tree, hands clutching at his soaked nightshirt. A soft moan escaped his lips.

_He must be dreaming, _thought Goku after a moment. The rain slid chillingly down his back, slipping past the collar of the jacket. Goten himself was soaked.

Blue light flooded the meadow, and a large peal of thunder shook the ground beneath their feet. Startled, the Saiyan whipped around to glance in the direction of the sound. The brief flash of lightning had made the grass almost seem _normal…_

But the light faded, and the grass resumed its steady glow. He could barely sense the ki – it was minimal, spread out among all the blades of grass. But it had the distinctive taste of his older son to it. It even smelled of him. A constant, painful reminder.

The rain, at least, dulled the glow and washed away the old smells – of sweat, and blood. His sweat. His son's blood.

His head turned back to his son just in time to be thrown roughly to the side. His neck cracked loudly in the dark night air as his ears rang. A fist, pale in the darkness, withdrew and left his cheek throbbing and numb.

Once he had recovered his breath, Goku looked to his son with astonishment. The teenager stood with his head bowed a few feet away. At first, he was too stunned to speak. Another peal of thunder shook the meadow, interrupting the uncomfortable silence.

At last finding his voice, Goku scowled through the wet and said, "Is this about yesterday? Because…" The boy threw another punch, one that the Saiyan caught. The sudden movement startled him and made his skin prickle. There was unusual force behind the blow; Goten's chi was going through the roof. "I'm sorry if I upset you," called Goku warily.

* * *

He observed in shock as he obeyed the creature's demands, ripping his hand free and aiming a punch straight at its face. 

To his surprise the punch hit with a harsh and realistic crack. His knuckles smarted.

He fled back a few feet, trying to distance himself from the monstrous thing.

"Fight me and it will lead to a battle," that hated voice was proclaiming loudly. It reverberated throughout the dreamworld.

It balled one hand into a fist and held it up to him, a loud reference. "Fight me and it will lead to the end of all battles."

* * *

Goku released his son's fist, still unable to make him out clearly among the dark and the weather. "You know you had to hear it eventually," he said, a sad attempt at reconciliation. 

"Back off!" The teenager cried, and disappeared into the deluge. The rainstorm had picked up its pace; now Goku could barely make anything out past a couple of feet. An immediate feeling of being _threatened_ filled him – on his toes in the frigid mud and slippery grass, he glanced around him, tracking his son's movements through sixth sense alone.

He was not fond of being blind.

* * *

As the creature stepped towards him, he cried "_Back off!"_, pressing himself into the corner he had been occupying. His enemy refused, continuing to approach. He slipped along the wall, dancing across the unseen floor, fists at the ready.

The monster was laughing at him, in his raspy, irritating voice. Then he disappeared.

He froze as he felt the creature's breath on his neck. "You know what they're all really saying," it said. Its next words make his blood run cold. "_Kill him."_

Crying out in horror, he pulled away, and did the only thing he could think of doing. In a swift combination of hand movements and chi-gathering, he prepared his father's legendary attack.

* * *

Lightning ripped through the valley and for the briefest moment Goku read his son's shape beside the pine tree. His sixth sense told him this to be true, as well, but all of his senses were sluggish with the early hours. He hadn't been expecting a _fight_ after all. Goten had been at odds with him for a few weeks now, but this was aggressive even for him… His adrenaline had barely begun pumping.

"Gohan, you—" he stopped, surprising himself. He was rarely one for slips of tongue.

In his moment of error a light bloomed in the dark, skewed and dimmed by the falling rain. He stared in incomprehension. The meadow was messing with his chi-sense…

As far as Kamehamehas went it was a small one, but that was what made it dangerous. Goten rushed the attack, sacrificing strength for speed; Goku, for his part, could barely make out the small beam until it was burning through the rain towards him.

Needless to say, he was shocked. That shock made him delay a millisecond too long.

His first instinct was to dive to the side, but he knew it was too late – all his inner energy shifted, and his palms automatically shoved forward. The rain sizzled as unseen force gathered in an impromptu shield.

The weak, rushed attack slammed into the shield, illuminating it as a pale blue upon contact; the disrupted energy of his son flew off at tangents to fade, with the lingering smell of burnt ozone, into the soggy atmosphere.

His heartbeat was louder than thunder in his ears, adrenaline now running high. That had been too close for his liking. A moment more of lingering… The warrior shrank away from the thought.

He looked up to see Goten appear from the veil of precipitation, clothes plastered to his small frame, head still down as if he were deep in thought. Immediately he took a defensive posture, unwilling to be caught off-guard again.

* * *

Shadows dissolved, leaving a murky half-grey world, empty and bland. But his enemy was before him – on his knees, defeated, face turned to the earth. The boy took a cautious step forward, hands still itching from the recent assault. 

A man only he had seen that day centuries ago lifted his eyes to him. Son Gohan, compassionate, defeated. In that voice he had heard only once he said, "_Kill me._"

Goten stumbled back, breath hitched in his throat. Somewhere he found the ability to croak, "I can't… I can't…" Squeezing his eyes shut, he felt hands clamp on his shoulders and twisted desperately, panic flooding him as he continued to plead, "I can't, I can't!"

* * *

Goku watched with mounting confusion as Goten backed away, muttering something indiscernible to himself. He straightened, dropping his arms to his sides, and took on a supplicant posture. "Goten… What's gotten into you?" 

The boy only continued to back away, refusing to look at him.

He had a stroke of inspiration.

In a sudden, careless movement – he was open in more places than any half-intelligent child would have been – he tore through the grass and grabbed his son by the shoulders. The fabric of his shirt was thick and heavy beneath his fingers, the skin underneath shivering from cold.

"Goten," he said stolidly. "_Wake up."_

* * *

They were still whispering to him – his brother, and the monster, or were they one in the same? – and he continued to fight, but he couldn't break free.

Something cold splashed his face and a completely different voice interrupted the scene.

He opened his eyes to a disorienting, wet, _real_ world – and his father's face.

"D-Dad…?"

The older man grinned in his usual manner, releasing him. "You're getting harder to round up."

"Wha—" He gaped, seeing the glowing grass beneath him. He had to raise his voice over the pounding rain. "We're in the _meadow?_"

"Yeah. You must have wandered out again."

"I… I didn't think…" Goten shuddered, feeling the affects of the mountain rain. Panic curled deep in his stomach. _I came all the way out here…?_

His father took a hold of his shoulder in a reassuring gesture. "Don't worry about it. Come on – your mother's probably worrying."

_Don't worry about it?_ he thought incredulously, wrapping his arms around his torso. _This isn't like before. I've never been all the way out to the meadow… _

_And…_ He shuddered again, uncontrollably. His hands still tingled. From the dream? Or because he had actually _done _what he dreamed?

There was a faint bruise on his father's cheek; it was fresh, it hadn't been there the night before. _It's _been _something to worry about, _thought the halfbreed darkly. He stared morosely at the ground beneath his feet, following his father like a lamb back towards the forest. _It's more than that, now. _

_I don't even have control over myself anymore.

* * *

**September 13, 781 A.D.**_

_I've decided. I'm leaving tonight. _

_This may be out of Dende's district. Whoever, then: please, just let me find him.

* * *

_The yellowed pages of the old journal, half-full with a growing boy's scrawling text, ruffled in the wind. Pale curtains danced in the breeze issuing forth through the open window, a stark symbol of the boy's flight. The window would not be discovered until morning.

For the night, the pages and the curtains simply ruffled in the brisk early autumn draft.

* * *

Finis

* * *

A/N: _Ah. Just when I hath forgotten the hell that is QuickEdit, it returns to slap me in the face._

_Ok. No preview. This story is being surprisingly capricious. Quite honestly, __I don't even know what's going to happen next chapter. But with any luck it won't take me another three months to get around to it. So there you have it kids! Chapter 2! Bitch to me so that I'll get around to writing Chapter 3! Review responses are, as per usual, on my Livejournal. Look at me Memories, and ye shall find!_


	3. The Cards Dealt

Notes:_ 'sa' is just a sort of Common-speak phrase to denote a question, such as 'The weather is nice, sa?'  
_

_A sarissa was a specialized 18-foot spear employed by Alexander the Great's army._

Thanks to Astrozazel for doing a wonderful job beta-ing this (midget) chapter, and congratulations to her for another amazing Midnight Garden chapter! Also, thanks to you guys for actually sticking with me. Your patience is staggering.

Disclaimer: _Yep, still do not own Dragonball Z. And I would really like to steal Steven Pressfield's brain, because he is the bomb-diggity.__  
_

* * *

Yamiji: Chapter 3  
_ The Cards Dealt_

* * *

"_The sarissa's song is a sad song.  
He pipes it soft and low.  
I would ply a gentler trade, said he,  
But war is all I know._"  
--Virtues of War by Steven Pressfield

_Queen of Hearts._ _Damn._

Another card, moved by deft fingers, swept onto the metal box which had become a table.

_2 of Hearts._ _Double-damn._

Sweeping the neat piles away, he began to aptly bridge and mingle the deck, focusing his gaze on the prone kid lying before him. "This game is the devil," Ludlu informed the stranger gravely. "And I should know. I've met him."

Sighing heavily, he dealt out a fresh hand. It was a new game for him, known on Earth as _Solitaire._ Saab had given him an entire book of Earthling card games, kindly translated into Common. Though he'd only possessed it for a few years, its cover was already worn and faded; he treated it like a holy book.

Finished with his dealing, he began to flip the face cards, staring with dismay as each one appeared.

"So you survived the door," he continued on amiably. "Not a bad feat. But you Saiyans are made of something else, as I've been informing my dear friend Saab for years. I think you're all cyborgs. He disagrees."

He paused to curse his luck and then continued just as cheerfully. "But what should I know? Saab _is_ the psychic here. I suppose you're just put together very well. So, your first time on this planet?" He paused, waiting politely for a response; flipped a card, cursed. "The desert's lovely this time of year. Hot, miserable, endless. Same as last year. And the year before that. Been here most my life, you know.

"You might even get to meet that master of ours. He'll _love_ you. Well, he'll probably kill you. He tends to do that. But he might even play with you a little first. An honor, I assure you." He exhaled with dramatic volume and swept the cards onto the floor. "Devil's game, I tell you."

Leaning back in the rickety old chair, he looked to the ceiling. "Ain't it all the devil's game?"

After their brief argument on the doorstep, they had cleared a space in the storage room (Ludlu lovingly referred to it as The Suite) and procured a cot from one of the long-empty rooms, positioning it among the piles of rusting parts. They had then discreetly dragged the limpid boy through the silent hallways, past the vacant barracks, past the mournfully disused spaceship, past the eerie depths of Yakkon's barren cage.

It wasn't necessary to be quiet – their master resided in the other end of the palace and never came out of his quarters, not even to eat – and yet it _was._ They were bringing _someone else_ into the palace. And the master was unaware.

He had quickly realized the naiveté of this belief – how unaware could a Majin ever be?

Ludlu was certain that he knew. There was no way the master _couldn't_ know. And he was certain Saab knew it, too.

But they didn't turn around and kick the kid out the door. They stashed him in the storage room and brought him food and water, stood watch over him. That had been a day ago; the kid slept on, as the pair waited for hellfire to rain down upon them. Ludlu wondered more and more what his master was thinking, in the passing hours. _What's he waiting for? An outsider under his roof?_

He remembered the _last_ visitor. More correctly, the last bits and pieces of him. It had taken a full day to clean up. The scene had brought back vivid memories of his days under Dabura.

The night before it had been his turn to bring the master's dinner; usually that entailed simply leaving the cart by the entrance, and retrieving the empty remains an hour later. But as he raised his fist to knock, the oaken monstrosity of a door swung open, revealing the pallid face of his master. Ludlu bowed and made his usual greetings. The halfbreed stared impassively back. The _eyes_ were what disturbed Ludlu most – they were also what kept him there, a prisoner of a dead palace. They were utterly empty eyes. The eyes of a half-Saiyan that had had every single piece of his soul beaten out of him. And what had it left? An exact duplicate of that chief monstrosity: Babidi himself.

And who, but he himself, had helped make the kid that way?

Mind roiling with these thoughts, he had smiled cheerfully and proffered the cart of bland and uninteresting foodstuffs. Without a word, his master had received it – but before returning to his dark lair, he had given him a brief knowing smile. Ludlu was still staring dumbly when the door shut in his face.

Ludlu had stood there for a long moment, suddenly feverish. _Of course he knows. And he's waiting. But what the hell _for?

"What indeed?" he proposed to the unconscious kid in the present. "Survived the front door. The master is waiting for you. Just what are you?"

He looked over the kid for the hundredth time since his shift had started. Seemed soft, really. His face was untouched and intact; not a scar to be seen. His clothes were neat and new, though of a strange fashion he had never seen. He didn't _seem_ powerful, but neither had the halfbreed those many years ago. Looks were not to be trusted; this Ludlu had learned quickly in his trade.

"I was a trainer here, you know," continued the Celar. "For most of my life. Strongest of my planet, but nothing compared to Babidi's little army. Well, I wasn't strong enough to fight, so I taught instead. Not a bad deal. I taught the lower fighters – the cannon fodder. I did the best I could, but they all died. Various causes. Blunt trauma, for the most part. All the promising warriors went to Dabura - the poor souls. At least mine, they just got a weapon shoved into their hands, got thrown into the ring, and down they went. Now _Dabura's._ Years and years and years. Wonder what it was like, having that much blood on your hands? Dabura's little devils."

"I can't even handle the weight of one little kid's life. Imagine hundreds." He smiled tiredly. "We call ourselves an advanced society, beyond the strife of all those begotten third-class planets. But we still slaughter each other; we just keep it confined to back alleys and tidy arenas."

Unbidden, his hands had begun to retrieve and shuffle the cards. "Now why am I here, you might ask? Well, you see, we had this perfect opportunity. The master looked us straight in the eyes and told us we were free. And my good friend Saab, I'm sure you remember him, looked him straight in the eyes and refused. You see, my boy, we old fools have been ensnared in this place. It is our bloody, haunted home. And it is all we know." With a fancy flick of the wrists, he completed the deck-shuffling and grinned broadly at his silent companion. "And that concludes my history. Thrilling, sa? What a blessed hand I have always been dealt."

The cards flew across the metal box at a dazzling pace, and Ludlu chatted on. "So what is it about you, that you've gotten the boss's attention? Strong fighter? Good at chess? Or just pleasant company?" He smiled at the non-existent response. "This has been a very rewarding conversation, kid."

The voice which drifted over the quiet hum of the palace's generators nearly brought his heart to a halt. It was all he could do to keep a hold on the deck of cards and avoid scattering them on the floor. It was quiet, polite, smooth; most interestingly, the words hadn't been Common. If his memory was what it had once been, the words had been similar to those spoken on _Earth._

He chanced a look upward, and met chillingly familiar onyx eyes.

At first his voice refused him. After a momentary struggle, however, he managed to croak, "Come again?"

* * *

Finis

* * *


	4. Parcae

Notes: _The Parcae were the Roman version of the Three Fates, known to the Greeks as the Moirae. Nona spun the thread of life; Decima measured its length; Morta cut it. _

_Thanks once more to Astrozazel, beta extraordinaire, and patient listener to my 3 am whining about this stubborn story. And thanks to you all for reading! _

* * *

Yamiji: Chapter 4  
Parcae

* * *

"Light thinks it travels faster than anything but it is wrong. No matter how fast light travels, it finds the darkness has always gotten there first, and is waiting for it."  
--Terry Pratchett

He was drowning.

This he decided whilst staring at the slowest-cooking pair of eggs known to all the gods above. _It can only take so long,_ he had thought. _They're just eggs.   
_

What a fool _he_ had been.

He had been in the kitchen approximately fifteen minutes and the completely nauseating scent was finally threatening to utterly overwhelm him. The Saiyan Prince, fated to die face-down in a platter of Earth food.

Well. He knew several of his kin that _had_ died face-down in food. They had died quite happy.

The noxious substance in question was his mate's coffee. The liquid was dripping, mud-like and inky black, into a pot to his immediate left. It was an obscure flavor from an obscure southern island purchased for ten times the price of that grown down the street, which he didn't understand at all (didn't all of it taste the same? It certainly _smelled _the same). The thick, earthy scent of it coated the back of his throat and benumbed his nose to all other smells. He could almost feel the sludge-like black material inside his lungs, drowning him bit by bit.

Thus, he decided: he was drowning.

He had once decided to question how much his mate prized the god-forsaken substance. But oh, how wrong he had been. Even the memory brought a brief shiver down his back.

So he was resigned to his fate, starvation or drowning, and he'd be damned before he starved.

As he thought these dramatic thoughts, eyes watering and lungs burning, a welcome distraction meandered into his peripheral vision.

Trunks looked up dazedly, a down jacket dangling from his arms. "Dad? What're you crying for?"

At first too aghast to respond, the prince swiftly began weighing out the consequences of strangling his only offspring. In a startling show of self-preservation, Trunks took a whiff of the air and immediately recoiled. "Never mind. How does she _drink_ that?"

Not so easily appeased, Vegeta slammed the final pair onto the plate, eyes still locked with his son's. The youth in question grimaced as the tile counter cracked.

"Why do you have a jacket?" the fullbreed asked at last, voice too calm to be safe. "It's summer."

"Morning jog. I like to go out to the countryside and – it gets, ah, a little chilly."

Vegeta had never been talented with beating around the bush. Rather than point out the dozen points at which this lie failed, he simply continued to stare fixedly at his son (who was sweating and fidgeting considerably) whilst depositing the dented frying pan in the sink.

The purple-haired boy shifted his weight a final time before allowing his shoulders to slump and opening his mouth to admit the truth. But, in Vegeta's glowing moment of triumph, a new voice drifted into the room - a familiar tone, reeking of _stupidity._

Trunks smiled uneasily. "Wow! Goku. I wonder what he's doing here so early."

His father sent him a single look – one of 'this is far from finished' – before abandoning his hard-earned breakfast to enter the living quarters to his right.

Bulma glanced up briefly when her husband entered, only to return to her guest immediately. Kakkarot stood in the middle of their living room, dressed not in his usual attire but a worn T-shirt and a pair of loose pajama bottoms. The Saiyan prince had to blink several times before he could assure himself that the pants were, indeed, a pale blue with yellow toy ducks scattered across it.

Vegeta wisely refrained from comment.

The younger Saiyan hadn't even looked at him when he entered, a strong indicator of the seriousness of the situation – whatever situation that was.

"—just this morning," was what Kakkarot was saying, looking at Bulma intently. "Last night he seemed alright, but when I woke up this morning, he had just… disappeared."

His mate frowned and reluctantly turned her gaze to him. "Vegeta, have you—?"

Without turning to look, the prince reached behind his back and seized the halfbreed peeking through the door by the hair, dragging him into full view.

Trunks regarded Goku with both guilt and irritation. "It's not like I _wanted_ him to go."

* * *

It had only been hours, but already the gentle hum of the computers grated on Goten's sensitive ears. He had been round the small ship a dozen times, memorized each nook and crevice. It was already beginning to bore him… 

The computer monitor flashed brightly, informing him that he had passed the Alpha Centauri. The halfbreed grinned. _Trunks wasn't kidding about speed…_For a moment he fumbled with the keyboard, but at last the spaceship's forward thrusters activated, and the ship was brought to a gentle halt.

He was alone and facing a search of gargantuan proportions, but Goten could not help but feel slightly giddy. It was his adventure, after all; at last he could leave the nightmares behind and _do something._ The universe lay before him, waiting. And somewhere, _he_ was waiting.

Settling against an empty section of wall, he closed his eyes and took a deep breath. Through years of practice, his mind collapsed easily into the silky folds of meditation. The chi of distant life forms leapt into his mind as foreign flickers of light, a bizarre taste compared to the familiarity of Earth. And, as he looked, there was home; he could sense humans, his father, Trunks. The small planet was blanketed with the comforting energies of home.

_No Gohan there, _he reminded himself dutifully, and returned his attention to the depths of space. He browsed swiftly over the millions of chi, dimly afraid that he would simply overlook the one life that he sought. _So many of them,_ the halfbreed realized dimly. _This is going to take forever…_

It was a hopeless chase to begin with, he knew. He had only sensed his older brother's chi once in his life. But he thought he could recognize the taste and feel of it when he came across it – a mixture of his father, himself, his mother, yet all its own. That distant strength intermixed with the fading, dulcet tones of hope.

Goten settled against the wall, mind far away from the empty spaceship and its humming computers. He swept across distant lands, seeking the single entity among a billion others. All he needed was a single glimpse; then he would awaken and set the course. For the moment, he waited.

He waited a long, long time.

* * *

"Damn it!" 

The sudden human shout shook the forest into unexpected motion. A deer, set about calmly collecting its evening meal, jolted to attention as though struck and took a dainty bound into the safety of the forest. Several birds burst from the treetops, crying indignantly at the perpetrator as they left. The ground squirrels began to chatter their vexation as well, though from a safe distance.

At the root of this sudden uproar was a boy, fifteen years of age. After shaking a fist briefly at a particularly outspoken rodent, he collapsed onto a rock, shoes landing with a crystalline splash in the mountain creek which sliced the forest in two.

The halfbreed Trunks leaned forward to gaze at his muddled reflection. Through the sluggish clear water he was able to read only the briefest image of himself, but it was enough to reveal knitted brow and flushed cheeks. With a sigh, he struck a wet shoe through the mirror image, temporarily erasing it. When it returned he had already calmed considerably.

Inside, he continued to seethe.

_Of course,_ he informed himself irritably. _Dad warned you, and Buu said no. Well, Dad won in the end, as usual. _The youth collapsed backwards across the boulder. The sun-warmed rock was balmy and pleasant to the touch, but he barely noticed. "Well who next?" he queried the wildlife. His response was a lingering squirrel's yip.

"That's Majin Buu down for the count. Who next? Krillin? Yamcha?" Trunks barely contained a yell of frustration. _What did Goten _expect? _That Mom wouldn't want her damned ship back? That they'd just wait for him to come trotting back, psychotic brother in tow? _

He turned his head to gaze at a stand of cattails, seemingly unmoved by his outburst. "I told him," he explained conversationally. "I told him I might as well come along. That it wouldn't be long before someone would come looking. 'You can stall them,' he said. Yeah. My father knew the _minute_ I walked in the door."

_All for his brother. His insane brother._

Try as he might, he could never understand his best friend. Of course, it came with the package; this was a fact Trunks had known from the beginning. From the moment he had met Goten, it had been 'I have this amazing brother, you know. He's a _hero._ He's dead!' And after the World Tournament… He hadn't understood how bad it could get.

For a few months he hadn't even mentioned it. Trunks had been partially suspicious and mostly relieved. He didn't know how the day had gone for Goten (in truth, he was afraid to ask), but for him it had been _hell._ Why not? For most of the day he had believed his best friend dead, and his father _had_ been dead.

And whose fault had that been? The very person – _monster_ - Goten idolized.

Slowly it had started taking over. Goten had gotten the idea, somewhere, to chase his brother down himself. And over time he started asking Trunks for help. It was vague at first: his usual clueless questions, except about strange subjects, such as his mother's prototype spaceships. For a while he pretended he didn't know what the younger boy was planning, even attempted to tell himself this. This stratagem had failed. Here he was, a conspirator in the idiotic little plot…

Countless times, Trunks had wanted to seize him by the shoulders and shout in his face. Just what? He didn't know. Words couldn't express.

Only '_every time his name leaves your mouth, you betray me all over again._'

But what _could_ he say when his best friend came up to him, begging to help him find his brother? Poor brother. What a tragic story. Went crazy, killed hundreds of people. What the hell? Let's go _find_ the crazy guy.

_He killed my _father. _Not with his own hand. But he did it. By and by, he did it. Why can't Goten _realize that?

When he had explained his actions that morning, in front of his friend's aghast father and his own aghast mother, all he could focus upon was his own father's expression. It read simply as 'And why are you still here?'

Trunks had wanted to strangle him. _Because I can't. I can't have anything to _do _with that bastard! _All Vegeta could see was that he had let his best friend go all alone, into space, no direction whatsoever…

He admitted to himself that, somewhere, he had garnered the hope that Goten would wait it out a few hours, fail to find what he was looking for, and come home. As the minutes ticked by, this hope slowly expired. And here he was, sent to gather back-up to rescue the rescuer.

Except there _was_ no back-up.

"It's not like he'll find him anyway," he finally mumbled to himself. "It's just a matter of following the ship. Once Goku gets it turned around we'll meet up and come back home."

Though it seemed the rescue would be short and simple, this knowledge didn't remove the reality. No matter what he did, nothing mattered to Goten but the idyllic Gohan. No matter what, _he _didn't matter...

He pressed the palms of his hands into his eyes, twined his fingers into his hair, and finally gave a frustrated shout. Even the squirrels were too surprised to respond to the fresh outburst.

His throat was raw as he moaned, "Why did you do this to me, Goten?"

* * *

"You think he's found anything yet?" 

"Patience, master," was the placid reply.

Dende frowned at the black-skinned man, hands wringing the staff in his grip. He was Kami, after all. Yet here he stood, like an impatient child. He felt utterly powerless.

Their attention, for the moment, was directed upon Son Goku. He had shown up that morning with the news of Goten's disappearance. Dende himself had only known of it a few hours prior, when it was far too late to warn anyone.

He wondered vaguely if he would have stopped Goten, had he had the chance. But the Namekian knew he would not have. Although at their last meeting he had been an enemy, Son Gohan had once been a dear friend, as well. As Kami it seemed his memory was longer than that of his disciples; though Goku seemed to have forgotten the selfless child that had been his first son, _he_ had not.

That was an incorrect assumption, he realized. The guardian chastised himself silently. Goku remembered full well who Gohan had been. Why else had he come so close to destruction that day seven years before?

Even now, he could see the faint lines of worry drawn into the Saiyan's face. Though some mistook Goku for an insensitive or incoherent person, the Kami could see the damaged persona beneath: that of a guilt-stricken father. Now he had lost two sons. The Namekian longed to place a comforting hand upon the older man's shoulder, but refrained, knowing it would only distract him.

Goku had come seeking a place of silence, and Dende would oblige. Now he sat with legs crossed, deep in meditation, as he sought the chi of his younger son. It wasn't an easy task, finding a single soul among the stars; and it was likely Goten would be masking it as best he could. Though Goku had years of extensive experience with chi-sensing, it was already nearly nightfall and he had not moved since that morning. The task was proving more impossible by the minute.

Dende was torn. He wanted the Saiyan to find his younger son, certainly, before Goten was hurt. But at the same time, he longed for Gohan to be given a second chance. And he _knew_ that Goten was that second chance.

_Can we have both?_ The minor deity wondered, feeling suddenly ancient. _I don't believe we can…_

As if summoned by this thought, the Saiyan's eyes suddenly snapped open, intent and pleased. Dende leapt in surprise at the sudden movement. Goku smiled and gave them a brief wave, before holding two fingers to his forehead and disappearing from sight.

"He found him, then," said the guardian, voice abruptly hoarse and tired. To his own ear, he sounded vaguely reminiscent of Piccolo. He grimaced at the idea.

"Which one?" replied Popo vaguely. He refused further comment, even under the questioning gaze of the Kami he served.

* * *

The metal sphere of the spacecraft glittered blindingly in the afternoon sun, standing small and lonely in the large docking bay which also served as a launching pad. The Capsule Corporations insignia stood out proudly on its black-and-white hull, proving it to be one of Bulma Briefs' pride and joy projects.

Trunks eyed the ship which would be his home for the next few days with mixed emotion. It was not as fast as the prototype his mother had spent the last five years perfecting, but it would have to do.

Bulma herself trailed after him, cigarette in hand. "Isn't she a beauty? Not as fast and pretty, of course, but she works. And damned well, I'll have you know."

"Yeah, well. Goten got the fast, pretty one," replied the teenager wryly. He hefted his bag of belongings higher on his shoulder and leapt up the entrance ramp. The sooner he could be off, the better…

A lingering thought caused him to pause with one hand against the door, the pack a comfortable weight against his back. The boy's pale blue eyes focused intently on his mother. "Why didn't we go after him before?"

Bulma regarded him calmly, cigarette dangling in a demure manner from her fingertips. "What did you think the prototype was for?"

The halfbreed frowned. "Then what were you waiting for?"

The scientist's eyes drifted to the ceiling as she took a slow drag, as if she sought an answer there. Apparently she found nothing there; with a soft exhalation of smoke, she flashed her son a tired smile. "A change of heart. A miracle. Everything."

Mirroring the weary expression, Trunks moved to enter the ship, only to have motion in the corner of his eye catch his attention. Even before he had moved to observe it fully, he was grinning with the pleasure of seeing an old acquaintance. "Piccolo! Come to wish me luck?"

The lithe Namekian, clad in his usual flowing cape and stern expression, regarded him gravely. "I planned to accompany you, actually."

Bulma laughed. "Leaving retirement after all these years?"

"One last wild fling," teased Trunks. "I knew you were an adventurer at heart, Piccolo."

The Namekian did not quaver under their jesting, nor did he bother with a retort. Trunks did not allow the stoicism to bother him; with a dramatic bow, he waved Piccolo onward. "Welcome aboard."

Bulma watched with a distant expression as they exchanged their goodbyes and the hatch slid closed, the smooth metal hull now separating mother from son. Logic dictated that he would be back in days, with Goten and her beloved prototype in tow; but that instinctual part of her stated otherwise.

With the large loading dock filled only with the dull hum of the engine as it went through its pre-flight diagnostics, Bulma scuffed the finished cigarette against the floor and turned to leave. A hand slipped into one pocket and found a marker there, deposited a few hours before and soon forgotten. The woman paused, thoughtful.

With a series of stroking marks, fingers arched gracefully over the large marker, she made her statement and stepped away to examine her work. A smile came to her lips, one alternately pleased and sorrowful. Bulma stood back from the platform, waving casually at the cockpit, and disappeared into the depths of Capsule Corporations to pray and wait. As soon as the door had closed behind her, the dull roar of the ship's engines shook the building.

Scrawled in her neat script across the ship's hull was a single word: 'Redemption.'

* * *

Finis

* * *


	5. Han'eiyuu

Notes: _Alright, I'm sure this chapter is mildly disorienting; most of it is dreams/thoughts/insanity. That was on purpose. Goku is slipping, throughout the chapter, from coherence to loss-of-self. But, if you're hopelessly confused... Feel free to e-mail me or comment on my LJ, and I'll answer any questions._

_ 'Han'eiyuu' is Japanese for 'anti-hero'._

_Thanks for reading. And thank you, QuickEdit, for always finding new and intriguing ways to drive me freaking insane._

Disclaimer: _Don't own DBZ, or China Mieville._

* * *

Yamiji: Chapter 5  
Han'eiyuu

* * *

"All the buildings are saying the same things. The foundation runs below them all, fractured and made of the dead, and it is saying the same things.  
--we are hungry. we are alone. we are hot. we are full but hungry  
--you built us, and you are built on us, and below us is only sand."  
--"Foundation" by China Miéville

Time was dead.

In its funeral wake he floated, he drowned, blind to all… blind to all but _that one._

A child's voice: "_Is that all it was for, Dad? Fighting?_"

It was the voice of that one whom was dead, but was not… was alive, but was not. _Don't call me Dad, _part of him thought, a part kept desperately quiet, away from the questing tendrils of those that listened. _Don't call me what I never was._

A scowl on the face he could barely feel. All was disconnected, lost in confusion, exhaustion. His conscious thought was one of annoyance. _Stop throwing my own memories at me._

The beast laughed in reply, that irritating rasp of a voice. Words his mind, not his ears, heard: ((You don't want to reminisce?))

Trapped in this dazed partial sleep but too tired to care; he only focused upon that ever-present intruder, that dark reminder of weakness and doubt and sullen memories left for dead. Senses abandoned into a numb chaos as he attempted to defend himself, defend from that probing intellect that knew too much, far too much.

This time his defense was silence.

A weakness sensed; he felt a smile in the dark and flinched.

Another probe: ((He didn't speak to you, did he? The day of his death - his second death.))

_He didn't, _was the blunt reply.

He had forgotten how to lie. Strange, for one who had lied all his life.

((Now why is that? No parting words? No touching final speech?))

_He was too busy distracting you. Made you lose Buu, didn't he?_ The jab was punctuated by a wry smile.

A pause of rage. ((Well, one victory among many defeats. I suppose I should thank you-- Wouldn't you know, he _expected_ it.))

…_Expected what?_

((You to kill him.))

Silence.

((But he was disappointed. The one time he expected you to carry through on something, you didn't. And then he was mine. Really, thank you. I thought him lost, but as always, you _astounded _me.))

_You lie…_

((Why would I lie? I almost felt sorry for him. He was depending on you. But isn't that how he always got himself killed? Depended on you to protect him, and he died; depended on you to destroy him, and he lived, only to die by my hands…

((You Earthlings confuse me. You proclaim fathers are supposed to protect their children, but I'm yet to see anyone acting upon this moral.))

_He should've learned – no one can depend on me._

((A fact that never ceases to amaze me, hero.))

* * *

The final memory of when time was alive:

Cool of shaded marble, that of the child god's abode, Dende's Lookout. Thrill of success: that flickering aura which he sought finally discovered, faint, distant.

Disconnection of stars, worlds, lives, flashing past, and he was _nothing_, only one weak fluctuation of time and space.

Disorientation of arrival. Not the harsh fluorescent lights of Bulma's prized spaceship, but darkness. Not warmth but cold. Not metal but stone. Discharged chi hung heavy in the air.

A figure turns in dim light; pale skin flashes beneath dark hair, dark eyes. Paler teeth gleamed within a pleased smile.

Son Goku glanced cautiously about, seeing only shadow and stone. His eyes returned harsh, accusatory. "It's you, isn't it… He isn't here."

"Truthfully, I hadn't expected you to actually _fall_ for it."

That familiar voice, older and tainted – tainted by the virus within. Part of him recoiled, appalled by such contamination of _that one, the other one…_

"Where is he?" _I sensed him…!_

"Across the stars the senses are distorted. An aura can become faint, confused with another… One aura confused for its sibling's, perhaps."

His hand was heavy at his side. Just to raise it, recall a familiar chi far in the distance, Vegeta or Trunks or Piccolo—

((_Don't make me interfere. It's such a pain._))

Here was the true monster's voice, spoken directly into his consciousness, raspy, amused.

The Majin puppet smiled on. "Do get comfortable, hero. You will be my guest for quite some time."

* * *

Eternity and its tramping, monotonous march.

((What is a hero?))

_Leave me alone._

((But I so enjoy our conversations, hero.))

_…A hero is… _

A pause. …_A hero is selfless. _

((You don't consider yourself one?))

_No one can be a hero. Not forever. It's not possible. A hero or a father; a hero or a mortal. You can't be both. You can't be infallible._

((Just a man, not a hero; but you were a hero, not a father.))

_I'm sure your father was so much better—_

((My father did his best. Taught me many things, he did. Didn't try to kill me, either.))

_I loved him. I tried. I did what he would've wanted me to do._

((Now how would you know that?))

_How would you?_

((We were close, he and I; we were close until the day I killed him. I knew him well, his doubts and fears. Just as I begin to know you now. The confused hero.))

_It was for the best... It was all I could do. _

((So you say.))

* * *

He had forgotten. Forgotten what it was to be… _less than a legend, more than a man, never what they proclaim me to be. _

Here it was dark. Here it was cold. Demons' voices melded into his own, leaving confusion and doubt in their wake. Doubt begetting frustration; frustration begetting anger; anger begetting fear.

This place was darker, colder with fear. His thoughts were feverish, nonsensical, jumbled; no longer did he coolly reject each insidious suggestion thrust upon him by the wizard. Now they lingered, echoed, returning in force each time his resolve faltered.

His resolve faltered again and again.

He was tired…

((and you wanted to kill him, didn't you?))

_The toad or you…?_

((you already killed me))

_I did… I did… _

The toad's voice had faded into his son's voice; his son's voice had faded into his own. Delirious, he never noticed this final alteration as he turned viciously upon himself. He didn't realize even after all but the dark had receded. He was alone. Not cold or tired; only blind and alone.

Here, words held far more power. Here, thoughts were all he had. There was no mysterious deity to guide him out of this maze. The dusty walls were words and thoughts and memories which he had vowed to forget, entangling him, narrowing his vision until there was only the dark.

Only the dark, and doubt, and the smallest notion of fear, as the labyrinthine walls – words, thoughts, memories, and a Majin's gift of sorcery – convinced him of how worthless it all was. Running. Thinking. Feeling.

He had been convinced of this once before. How worthless emotions were - how they slowed the tongue and dulled the senses. Somewhere, as he had convinced himself to operate only as _the soldier _and not as _the savior_, he had forgotten that fine line. That point where the "good" waltzed with the "bad" and the two intertwined, and suddenly the "good" weren't simply "good" and the "bad" was far too appealing…

He had forgotten that fine line. What he had done, when he forgot the line, was not _wrong. _In fact the others had urged it on, speeding his transformation, his abandonment of _the father _for _the warrior._ Earth or a son? Thousands or one?

It hurt. It had hurt. Even lost in the oblivion of _the soldier the warrior the hero _it had hurt. Each solid connection, that feeling of flesh striking flesh, a heavy weight upon each joint of his body which he had learned to take as both good and bad. Good: you have struck your opponent, he falls to the grass and rolls, another furious look your way and a clumsy grasp at the wet soil to steady himself. Bad: he has struck you and you reel backwards, heel coming down in icy mountain stream, the cold a sharp contrast to the warmth of adrenaline all throughout you.

There was too much good.

He watched his own hands try to kill his son.

But all the while he continued that dichotomy: _This is all that can be done. This is all that I can do. I'm trying my best. For the common good. He... isn't... real._

There was "good" and there was "bad." There had never been discussion of who the _evil _were; never a doubt in his mind. The _bad _could become _good. _Piccolo and Vegeta, demons both, and then heroes courtesy of a guiding hand. But the good. Could the _good _become _bad?_

This he asked himself, in the dark and the cold and the fear.

Because if it had happened to _that one…_The one who was, to begin with, abhorrent of fighting itself until fate and his father's forceful hand had compelled him to embrace it… That one who was not even a warrior at heart. Had never wanted to be a warrior at heart.

If that one, who could not accept Saiyan blood lust or the simple glory of hand-to-hand battle, if _that one _had turned his back on the light…

If that one had done so, what did that mean of him?

The Saiyan. The warrior.

This he asked himself; but try as he might, he couldn't answer.

* * *

((You fear your mistake.))

_I fear nothing._

((You failed him, entirely. You were relieved that he couldn't return! Relieved that he was dead to you! And another followed in his path… Another chance. But you failed him too, didn't you? No matter what you did, you never were a _family man_--))

_I wanted him back. I wanted to apologize. I always wanted him back… _It should've been me._ If he hadn't stopped me—_

((You fear and you deny, to protect that soft mind of yours. Hero! Quit hiding behind your glory. You're no hero. You're a coward. Is it so hard to decide to sacrifice when you could allow others to sacrifice for you? To decide to be the one leaving, rather than the one left behind?))

_I was willing to leave _all _behind for them – all of them – all of Earth… I would leave all I loved, so that they could live._

((The hero loves so much. How does he keep track of it all? No one can love _all._))

_Yet you hate all—_

((There is much I love. Don't pester me with your antagonizing. No, you; you are our object of discussion. You claim to love thousands. Yet those that love _you _suffer and die.))

_I was given the ability to protect. They understand… _

((He didn't.))

_He understood too well. _

((When he lay with his neck broken in the dust of Namek…))

_He understood, even then. He always understood._

((He understood what a fool you were, thinking that the humans ever _cared_ about the pains you all endured for the sake of an arbitrary "good."))

"_Good"… "Good" is all we have. _

(("Good" is a farce. "Good" led the Kai to damning your son. And what does "good" offer to you now?))

_It allows me to resist you…_

((Resist? Do you even hope for salvation? Who has ever tried to save you, _Father?_))

…_Stop using his voice!_

((If I'm going to play the part properly…))

_You aren't him._

((Did you ever know 'him'? He didn't think so.))

Cheap remarks, so many that he had thought himself; they blended together; time's swan song ended and left only eternity, where conversations and voices and memories blend together to one solemn shade of clammy desperation.

((How could you ever claim to be the hero everyone lauds you as?))

_I did my best._

((You say this, but I don't think you believe it.))

_Is this what you did to him? Wore him down with his own doubts?_

((I didn't have to – you did that for me.))

_You bastard._

((Is that any way for the hero to speak?))

_You're just waiting. For what?_

((For you to slip again. What else?))

_And Goten?_

((The same that I want from you – only obedience.))

_You can't take anything from us. The Mark—_

((--isn't infallible. Perhaps I cannot touch you now, hero, but I can wait. I can wait.))

And then the boundaries began to dissolve. Distinctions faded. Was he speaking or listening? Feeling or thinking? Seeing or imagining?

Was it memory? Was it dreams?

Was it anything at all?

Fevered thoughts thrown together, past and endless present:

((_you already killed me_))

He is one and he is several. The Saiyan is a warrior. The Human is a mortal. The Hero is a savior. The Father is a guardian.

_Warrior or mortal? Savior or guardian? Why can't it be both? Why couldn't I protect both—_

((but now you've lost both your sons…))

_I'm a coward…_

((hero))

_I fear. Fear… you…my son… _

_I can't be this anymore._

_I can't be…_

…_anything. _

_Didn't he realize? Why didn't he realize…? Why didn't he know to never depend on me… Never depend on the hero…_

_Heroes always fall._

That one, _the other one, _burning in the cracked arena, thousands gaping, could've been proud, what a warrior, but—

That one pained, shattered glass, a demon's grin.

That one scared, the blood of others, the bellow of the crowd.

His fist strikes as the ocean roars muted at his back, that one's head thrown aside, the crack of vertebrae, and on his face - _such surprise… or was he surprised at all?_

_…I killed him. I killed him._

_I could've saved him but_

((now he's mine))

And then there was… silence.

* * *

Despite his promise on the lakeshore what seemed centuries ago, Son Goten had tried to forget. This goal, this quest of his was literally worlds away – and moreover, there were the nightmares. Beyond his optimism, swelling beneath it like some fetid goliath, was the true horror of that day. The pain, the sorrow, the failures…

That day ultimately taught him that not all stories ended happily; that good did not always triumph. Not for everyone.

He awoke many a night to a terrified heart and dreadful memories receding into shadow. Eventually he could not ignore these nightmares, or the restlessness that had filled him, that restlessness that emerged each time he viewed the sky – that eternal barrier. He ached and he dreamed until he couldn't take it any longer. So, he forgot – as was so easy for children to do. He moved on. He choked back aspirations and terror as one.

Everyone (his best friend especially, for reasons he had never attempted to comprehend) was relieved by this. It was easier for them to bundle those skeletons back into the closet. He was too young to be disgusted then, but he would be, upon a later reminiscence.

He tried to forget, and he succeeded for a time. He lived and he grew. The face that haunted his dreams returned to its humble place amongst dusty photographs. Time, the world, everything rolled on…

Rolled on and around.

The nightmares returned when he was thirteen. It seemed he wasn't as talented with hiding the skeletons as everyone else seemed to be. He couldn't, in retrospect, remember what the cause of the relapse was

(_it's all the devil's game_)

but they returned. And then the sleepwalking began, his old ambitions returned, regurgitated – and this time he couldn't fight them back. The world became claustrophobic once more, an immense cage.

So he asked Trunks for help. Begrudgingly he agreed (still bitter – why? He had been a victim that day, but hadn't they all been victims?). The ship was built, and he escaped…

…victims.

They were all victims of the—what was it? The devil's game. Yes. And what a game it was, when the devil himself was a pawn.

But the devil was not who gave him these restless nightmares and restless dreams. It was not the devil who made him regard the sky as the immobile obstacle that it was, holding him there whilst _the other one_ wandered, both of them free and both of them trapped—

Trapped in…

And then, no more enlightened, no more exhausted, he woke up from that dazed half-sleep.

* * *

Finis

* * *


	6. The Road Taken

Notes: _Two updates in a row - that's a new one, innit. This chapter was already written, whereas NOM's is still off in netherspace... Thus Yamiji gets two updates. This chapter is meant to clarify some of KH, some of Yamiji, and some of what is to come. Questions? Rants? Comment away._

_Dear Quickedit: Please stop deleting my dividers. Kthx. Jerk. _

Disclaimer: _Don't own Stephen King or DBZ.  
_

* * *

Yamiji: Chapter Six  
The Road Taken

* * *

He felt as if Stillson might have taken the game of the Laughing Tiger a step further: inside the beast-skin, a man, yes. 

But inside the man-skin, a beast.  
--The Dead Zone by Stephen King

Even the door seemed to stretch on forever.

Its whorled and jagged twists, its lustrous and dull grain; the wood fought for supremacy within itself, gleaming, rich color ensnared in a black palimpsest of ancient stories… the stories of a tree. A tree that had, somewhere, some century, caught the eye of a Majin.

Now it stood between him and what he sought.

The youngest Son stared at it with anxiety thinly veiled in determination. A final pat on the back from his servant guide and he was alone – only him and the door.

The damn _doors _in this place.

Ludlu had said there was not a dismembering hex on this door, nor any pestilence or mind-vampyr – his master did not need such protections. After all, his master was…

…well, his master.

Goten had awoken in a state of disarray, a strange creature babbling to him in jumbled, convoluted chatter. He had managed to croak, "Who are you?" though most of him wanted to say '_What _are you?' Then he had realized it was not gibberish that the alien had been speaking but a _language._ As if a switch had been flicked, he spoke again, and abruptly "Who are you?" had transferred from his own native tongue in his mind to a smooth replica of the creature's strange syllables, flowing off his tongue seamlessly.

He was too startled to do or say anything else.

The creature (whose name, he later learned, was Ludlu) was a bird. He possessed a rudimentary beak melded into a humanoid but angular face, wide and responsive eyes with constantly readjusting pupils. His skin was a pale yellow, laid smoothly across the sharp bones of his face but gradually breaking out into gleaming blue-green scales along his neck and chest and eventually stunted but opulent orange and red feathers along the outside of his forearms and the crest of his head.

Eyes all the wider with surprise, the avian-man fled the room with astounding speed. Goten sat in stunned silence.

Ludlu returned with a grave humanoid, the Kanaasan Saab. The psychic had not the looks of a psychic; his crested forehead collapse into wrinkled jowls, creating an almost fishlike resemblance. Stocky and somber, Saab explained their situation with surreal calm.

Learning that he had, by some god-given miracle, actually gotten to the Majin stronghold, he had promptly brightened. Hearing that the Majin syndicate spread across three quadrants he had grown somber. He didn't know what Babidi was – was he one among many psychotic little toads or the last?

At his questioning, Saab had explained that Babidi was the last psychotic little toad, although he had once been one of many. Even Ludlu seemed surprised that there had been an actual Majin race, _thousands _of the egomaniacs; Saab had refused further inquiries into the subject.

Ludlu promptly informed Goten that Saab, as a stingy self-deprecating prat, did not divulge such information merely for the enjoyment of plunging those around him into mental anguish.

Saab's response was a well-placed elbow that left Ludlu curled up on the floor.

Emboldened by the Kanaasan's assurance that this was, indeed, the palace and former academy of the Majin wizard Babidi, Goten had asked to see their master. He or she might not be Son Gohan… but as Babidi's successor, he or she would know where the halfbreed had gone. Perhaps he or she (or it) would be willing to divulge such information; perhaps he or she would just kill him – they had already tried.

What had stopped him from touching the door? There had been no detectable warning, no unfriendly aura or burst of chi. All he remembered was the door, its plain unadorned face, and his hand reaching for the circular loop of a handle… Then darkness. Only darkness. _Why?_

When asked what he was searching for, Goten replied that he sought his brother. "Who is…?" Saab had asked. A brief moment of trepidation passed before Goten finally proffered, "Son Gohan."

The psychic raised a hefty brow.

"You know him?" He sat forward on the lumpy, thin bed roll.

"Of course," Saab replied. "Only half-Saiyan we've ever had here. But I'm afraid he died on a backwater planet of the North Quadrant."

"No," said Goten vehemently. "He didn't die. He's alive. A little lost, but… alive."

"I fear you may be on a hopeless quest," was the soft reply.

The fourteen-year-old responded with stony silence.

* * *

"S'cold." 

"Hn."

A huff; wrapping a second blanket around his shoulders, Briefs Trunks sat gingerly on the frigid floor. "It's _freezing._"

The Namekian meditating a few feet away cracked an eye open. The silent gesture read simply: _This is my concern?_

"I'd fix the heater but Mom had to put it in the most asinine place, right behind the stupid O2 monitor…"

The eye closed again.

Another huff, pouring silver mist across the empty air. "Fine."

Five minutes' rummaging produced a meager tool kit. A small summoning of chi calmed shivering hands. Breath clouding the air, he painstakingly detached the O2 monitor, leaving it dangling by thin threads of wire from its original resting place. Detaching it entirely meant causing the fragile processor inside to go completely out-of-whack; a thirty-minute recalibration was nothing to look forward to, so he simply did his best to avoid knocking the console's wires loose. The heating control center, passive and silent, resided beyond. A few tweaks were all the unit needed. A chip had been loaded incorrectly, wires crossed… It took trial and error, minimal concentration.

Somewhere in the biting cold and calming focus he found conversation. Perhaps because he could safely hid his face inside the console, away from Piccolo's stern gaze.

"He's an idiot."

Silence.

"Don't see what he's so fixated upon."

Silence.

It was a long struggle to get the next words out. After he spoke them they seemed to hang on the air, odious, onerous.

"You knew him, didn't you? …The other one."

He waited a pause. Cold and silence. "He was your student, right?"

"He was."

Trunks strode on, emboldened by the fact that Picolo had answered at all. "What was he? I mean—how was he?"

The Namekian was silent for a pause. "He was more than you would expect from Goku's blood."

"Why?"

He heard a rustle of fabric, probably a shake of the head. "He simply was."

"But was he… Somehow there must've been _signs,_" argued the teenager. He paused in his repair work to glare at the circuit board. "He couldn'tve been the angel everyone describes. Something in him, somewhere… he had to be imperfect. He _killed_. Killed hundreds! There must have been signs!"

"The Majin pry at weakness. They exploit and distort. Your theory isn't without basis…" Piccolo left it at that.

Trunks scowled. "You don't believe me."

He felt the Namekian's eyes upon him, impassive.

After several breaths Trunks returned to his work, seeking some answer there. He forced calm into his voice. "You say they exploit weakness. What was his weakness?"

Silence.

"The perfect warrior," continued Trunks bitterly. "Saved the world at eleven and died for it. From all I've heard, quiet, polite, smart, honorable… perfect. The little hero. Where could he go wrong? How could the illustrious Son Gohan be less than perfect? You all never asked this. I'm not afraid to." He delved further into the console, masking nervousness. He was out of line; he was well aware Son Gohan had been very important to Piccolo. Whether Piccolo would tolerate his intentional cruelty… He waited pensively for the Namekian's response.

But Son Gohan's mentor did not recoil, nor flare with anger, nor retort vehemently. He continued with his usual gruff calm. "And what do you propose this weakness to be?"

Here, Trunks' headstrong demeanor faltered – he didn't have an exact answer. Loathing admitting ignorance, he pressed, "Some secret desire… Maybe he enjoyed fighting too much. Maybe his bloodlust didn't end with his death?"

And then Piccolo laughed.

Trunks was too shocked to be offended. He hadn't known Piccolo _could _laugh.

A final derisive snort; Trunks found his voice again. "Why not? How do you know what went through his mind?" The heating console repaired, he set to work returning the O2 monitor to its rightful place. But only silence followed his inquiry; he paused, a wire pinched in each hand. "You could read his _mind?_"

"I could pry," said Piccolo, "when he allowed me to pry."

"Then there were things the perfect Son Gohan had to hide."

"Only one."

"Bloodlust. All Saiyans have it. It went out of control, didn't it? He—"

"No," interjected Piccolo sharply. "The opposite."

"The opposite of bloodlust?"

"Fear."

Trunks paused in his tirade, surprised by this revelation. Piccolo continued in his grave, Spartan manner. "He was afraid of fighting. He hated it. Maybe himself, as well, for being a fighter. This he hid from me. He wanted to be what he thought we were – fearless – and what we wanted him to be: a warrior. And he hated himself for never reaching that level of impossible courage, something none of us possess.

"This, the Majin exploited. The weakness we created in him."

"He meant a lot to you, didn't he," said Trunks quietly.

Silence – but the silence offered more words than anything.

The panel replaced, Trunks sat up. He rubbed his arms, appreciating the sudden burst of warmth from the nearest ventilation shaft. He spoke reluctantly: "How did it happen?"

"That, only Babidi can answer – Babidi and Gohan himself. Goku also was somehow aware of what had occurred, although how he couldn't say. After the battle, he told me what he saw…"

"When he was asleep? My dad said he had visions. He said that was why…" The halfbreed's voice faded into vivid memories, blood and ferocity and a Saiyan's brief awakening. The feral side of the hero. Dangerous, vicious… blind.

"Yes," replied Piccolo briefly, impatiently. "He saw what happened – pieces of memory. From what he could remember, there was an arena… Such as the gladiator-style arenas, but always to the death. Gohan fought there. He killed there – in Babidi's name. The Supreme Kai first saw him there, and abhorred him, unaware that he was still good at heart…"

"How!" cried Trunks angrily. "How could you say that? He was _killing _people! He killed innocent people, even his old friends, like my father…!"

"We always told him to kill. He never wanted to. That's the question, isn't it? How did he ever become a murderer?"

"Goku didn't envision that part?"

"He did. But when I asked he wouldn't answer. I thought it a subject best left untouched."

"You should've pressed it. Maybe we could understand why he is—"

* * *

"—unique." 

Ludlu laughed, a melodic chittering. "Unique? A part-Saiyan that wouldn't fight? That's more than _unique._"

"It was against his nature."

"But he was a fighter."

"From what I could glean, Earth's sentient life has crafted a largely pacifistic culture. Fighting may have existed… but killing was condoned, as made obvious in their martial arts contest, where a death was grounds for automatic disqualification. Murder was never accepted. This the halfbreed told me himself."

"Didn't stop him in the end." With a shrug, he settled into shuffling the bedraggled deck of cards. "What planet doesn't say murder is a crime? Doesn't stop 'em from going to war, does it?"

Over the soft flickering Saab ruminated. "He lasted, didn't he? Babidi didn't take him until that incident with the glass ceiling."

Ludlu scowled. He had been one of the two to hold the halfbreed still as the boy had sold himself into a lifetime of slavery. A bitter memory, it was, the feel of resigned dead weight within his grip.

Saab ruminated on. He had stumbled across another thought. "But that wasn't it, was it? There were three…"

"What d'ya mean?"

"Babidi used binding spells on the halfbreed," explained the Kanaasan gravely. "He must on all powerfully-willed warriors, such as Dabura, and feral ones, such as Yakkon. You and I offer little threat of dissent, we serve willingly; but this halfbreed… Young, powerful, willful. He had no ill intentions, no vices to work off of, except perhaps doubt in himself…

"Binding spells restrict the soul. They're inefficient; once the slave capitulates and his soul is bound, _entirely _bound, all free will is lost. Eating, even. Existing. The master must dictate every order. It's possible to create partial or restrictive binding spells… But restrictive spells require a basis, a greed or dark desire, within which foundations can be laid, an anchor of sorts. Dabura's demonic vices were the basis for his restrictive spell. He possessed free will, but any sign of mutiny and the binding spell reacted, isolating soul from body. Such a spell can only work on the willing, the black-hearted. This halfbreed had no real basis. No significant foundation for the Majin poison to spread from…

"A partial binding spell carries with it the risk of the soul breaking its bonds. Even a total binding spell can be broken when the master's attentions wander and the will grows too strong. With a warrior as formidable as a halfbreed Saiyan, Babidi would not chance a partial binding spell. Especially with one so principled, who could never willingly join our kind. Saiyan or not, fighter or not, he was never willing to kill."

Ludlu nodded, only half-listening. "Your point?"

"Babidi could only use a complete binding spell. Which meant one binding spell to bind one soul. The kid had a binding spell on him when he arrived here – I sensed it on him."

"And?"

"Didn't you notice? He was autonomous. Free-willed."

A blink of large, oval eyes. "And?"

"He was bound! His soul was bound! You don't have free will when your soul is isolated from your body! You have _nothing!_ No thought, no emotion..."

"Then how was he…"

"Three."

"Three what?"

Saab held up a finger. "When Babidi picked him up." A second finger. "When he shattered the dome." A third finger. "Sometime on Earth. _Three times _Babidi bound him."

"So he was stubborn. The binding spell didn't hold." Ludlu shrugged. "Majin magic doesn't work as well on the pure."

"He wasn't pure, or else it wouldn't've worked at _all _– it would've taken years to get even the first binding spell in place. No, he had doubts. That was what Babidi exploited.

"But you're wrong. He never _broke _them. Believe you me, Babidi would have thrown an ungodly fit if the kid had shrugged off his binding spell. The toad isn't weak or inept. No one _I _know of has ever broken his bonds."

"Then why three spells?"

Three fingers held up again.

Ludlu scowled. "What? Yes, three, why—"

"Three souls."

"How is that possible?"

"It's not _entirely _unheard of. Some souls avoid the Afterlife. Sometimes they inhabit other bodies – sharing a body with the original soul. Perhaps guiding their host to accomplish whatever goal they never reached in their own life. Two extra souls, that's unusual, but he was an unusual child…"

"So Babidi had to bind all three."

"Yes. I assume the first was Gohan himself, wherever Babidi collected him. The second was a pacifistic soul – referred to itself as Juujen. The third, the one who lasted until Earth, was Okiri, a stubborn sort…"

"Okiri – Babidi called him that. Meant 'cinder' in Saiyan, didn't it? I thought the master was poking fun at him, burning on for no reason. …But now all three are gone. What's there instead?"

Saab smiled darkly. "Now that's a quandary, innit?"

* * *

"Did Babidi truly die?"

Trunks did not respond immediately. He had not thought of it. "Vegeta said he disappeared from Hell. They thought his father killed him…"

"They thought Bibidi killed Gohan, as well."

"Was he revived?"

"I believe there must be a Majin in this world to revive a body. A conduit. No, Bibidi may have sent him _to _a body… One already made ready for Babidi. An empty vessel."

"You think Goten's brother…"

"Perhaps this was what Babidi was grooming him for all along. A young, strong body..."

"If Goten does find him, Babidi will kill him," said the youth fearfully.

"Babidi's motives aren't entirely clear. He let Goten live seven years ago. Was it a whim or a calculated decision?"

"I told him to stop chasing a stupid dream. I told him it would get him killed!"

"We don't know that yet," said the Namekian deftly.

"What does Babidi want?"

* * *

"No Majin Buu, the academy is dead. The organization falters…" 

"The Majin organization has a hand in every criminal underground movement from here to the South Quadrant. It doesn't falter. Babidi's grip on it falters. The bosses think he is dead; they think Gohan is inept. They do not realize the two might be one in the same. But Babidi won't lose the organization he built himself. He waits. Perhaps for this Goten. Perhaps for something else."

"The other one? Where did he come from?"

"I don't know." Saab glanced away. "I think Goten knows this other one…"

* * *

"If Goku caught up with them…" 

"I did my best – your father, as well – to return him to his old confidence. He should be able to face 'the other one', as you call him. But it's not certain. Babidi's influence runs deep."

"Even in Goku?"

"Doubt is a dangerous emotion."

"This wouldn't be happening if Gohan hadn't existed."

"If Gohan hadn't existed, we would all be vastly different, perhaps even dead."

"Possibly."

Another subject broached: "Who can Babidi control?"

* * *

"_Control?_ Only the forsaken. Those without the Mark of the Gods…"

"The Mark of the Gods," scoffed Ludlu. "That old myth."

"It exists. Those that act upon their darkest desires lose the Mark."

A stormy look crossed the Celar's face. "I almost killed a girl. I think I would've – my brother stopped me…"

Saab smiled faintly, bitterly. "I murdered a man. A Kanaasan, a countryman, one of the last. Old beggar – looting the wreckage of my family's home, after the Saiyans razed it. It didn't bring my family back, but I imagined it was a Saiyan throat in my hands. I don't regret it."

"It's all the devil's game, sa?" A grin.

"Sa," replied the Kanaasan.

"But how did the halfbreed lose his Mark?" pondered Ludlu aloud, dealing out a hand of Rummy.

"A question for him. Some dark, evil deed. Even the good-hearted are capable of it…"

* * *

"The Kai themselves," said the Namekian. "They removed it as retribution for the death of the North Kai." 

"'Can a god be charged as an accomplice to murder?'" quoted Trunks wryly, borrowing the phrase from an ancient playwright. "I thought gods were above revenge."

"I heard rumor that the Majin themselves were once gods…"

* * *

"What?" Ludlu arched an eyebrow over a dismal hand of cards. "Gods of what?" 

"Us. Why do you think they live for so long? And where did they get such a prowess for magic?"

"But the Kami—"

"Replaced the Majin." He shrugged. "That's what our ancient texts said. All mixed up in religious hooflah, of course – who knows for sure what the Afterlife is like, and who watches over it, if it even exists?"

"Babidi would make a horrible god."

"Demigod is a better phrase. Each planet was given a guardian, a Majin. The Majin could communicate with the higher gods. But they were not immortal, only gifted with long life and the ability to transmute chi into magic."

"Still, the _toad_ acting as a god?"

"Not anymore, obviously. That part was lost. In my studies, all I could discern was a war between the lower and higher gods. The higher gods won – the Majin lost the love of their people. In a final desperate effort they created an ultimate weapon, bestowing it to their strongest and most twisted—"

"Bibidi," said Ludlu softly.

"And at his side, his son. Bibidi left with the ultimate weapon, a creature borne of pure chi and a thousand Majins' life blood…. But the wizard was defeated. Babidi disappeared. The Majin name faded into obscurity, resurrected only by the lips of thieves and gangsters.

"Curious byproducts of the war: the Mark of the Gods, and a race of unbelievably powerful warriors, wanderers, borne of immense power and without a home."

"The Saiyans?"

"Indeed. Some say the higher gods engineered them.. Others that the Majin created them from magic." Saab laced his fingers. "What if it was both?"

"I don't follow."

"A race caught between the heavens and reality. Now, there are only two – both on Earth. And a scattering of halfbreeds. One is here. One is infected by the last Majin. Within him are four souls – three ancient, two wanderers, one young… One impossibly old, evil…

"He's a nexus of ancient battles. That is what I believe. Within our halfbreed is the final battle of a war from eons past."

"And we sent a fourteen-year-old to…"

A grin and an interjection. "If the Saiyans are a product of the mortal and heavenly realms, what is to say a little heavenly realms wouldn't reside within him?"

"You and your theories. For the love of God, lay down a _card!_"

* * *

His scant belongings – all contained with a slim capsule pack, courtesy of Trunks – he left with the two helpful servants. Ludlu led him to the door… and here he stood. 

Looking at the door.

The damn door.

With a measured intake of breath, he rapped his knuckles against the dark grain of the wood. The movement took an eternity; he barely avoided a nervous laugh when at once the monolithic thing swung ajar. _Simple as that, _he thought.

Darkness swelled beyond.

_Yes. Very… simple._

* * *

Finis

* * *


	7. Kanbeki

Notes: _Sorry this took so long. I blame it entirely on the characters involved... They're all such stubborn fellows..._

_'Kanbeki' means 'to be complete.'  
_

Disclaimer: _I do not own DBZ or its various children. Saab and Ludlu are of my own creation, however._

* * *

Yamiji: Chapter Seven  
Kanbeki

* * *

"There's nothing at the end of this world. No matter how far you go, the same path lies in front of you. How am I able to keep walking like this even though I know that? ...I can hear someone's voice..."  
-Wolf's Rain

Beyond, darkness loomed.

It loomed and swelled, enveloping him with welcoming tendrils, and then the door was closed. He stood in the beast's layer.

Bit by bit fractured shafts of daylight tumbled through a ceiling cobwebbed with gleaming iron bars, dull ropes, red silk hanging heavy from rusted chain. Streams of cloth cascaded to a cold granite floor, shattering the apparent immensity of the hall into disorienting glimpses – a gleaming table here, a contorted statue there – but before him in the red-tinged shadows, the path was clear. A single straight shot, the granite floor swept clear. At its end lay steps. Atop the steps a silvered mirror rested, reflecting his lonely figure. Standing between him and his reflection was a man.

Dark hair and dark eyes: familiar traits for any Saiyan, no matter how dilute the blood, but that peculiar shape of the face so similar to his mother's, and that particular curve of the eye just like his father's--

The boy stilled.

"Goten." It was a piece of a child's dream, that voice. So familiar and so distant. At once he was seven again, sand shifting beneath his weight as those dazed eyes looked up at him—

These eyes were not dazed. They were sharp, cunning.

With immense will Goten tore himself from the dream and clenched his fist. "Don't pretend to be him. You _aren't_ him."

A wicked sneer shattered the memory; Son Gohan's face was immediately distorted, revealing the jackal within. Something, somewhere trembled in the back of Goten's mind.

"It's been a while, young hero…"

His fist tightened. The faintest of tremors escaped through pale fingers.

"You've grown. I was wondering when you'd arrive – I expected you, certainly, after our last meeting. You did have that _stubborn _look about you." The monster smirked thoughtfully. "It took you quite awhile. I was beginning to think you didn't love me anymore."

He snarled. "You aren't him!"

"There, there. Why so furious? The one _you_ look for is long dead."

"Yeah, I know. You killed him. I'm gonna bring him back," Goten replied, layering his voice with the courage of his father's bloodline. The bravery sounded hollow.

"And how do you intend to do that?"

"By killing _you._"

"Please, try. It's been so long since I've had a decent fight. Not since I defeated your father." He smiled as if lost in reverie.

Goten seizes a step forward with fist raised, foolish as the measure felt. The Majin smiled on, a Cheshire grin.

Muddled shadows parted to his right and abruptly he was pressed against the twisted, cold metal of a misshapen column, a familiar hand curled around his neck.

He squinted into the semi-dark with utter incomprehension. This was too fast, too disorienting – where and why…?

His father stared blankly back.

Past gritted teeth he breathed: "Dad…"

"You see, this is the quandary I face," the beast explained calmly, appearing at Son Goku's shoulder.

"Dad, stop—" His hand gripped his father's wrist but he could not remove the crushing force.

"_He's _here because he came looking for you. Just some simple observation on my part, a little well-placed interference…"

Another entreaty escaped as a hoarse groan. The bent column sent spirals of pain up his back to couple with the benumbing vice crushing his neck.

"Now _you. You're _the real question. Why are you so determined, young hero? Why must you pester me so?"

A struggle and a single syllable: "Da—" Goku's grip tightened as Goten's strength crumpled. Panic filtered into the fourteen-year-old's eyes.

"It's fitting, innit? Just like he did to me."

_You aren't—_

The world darkened.

_You aren't him._

((Now, tell me, young hero. _Tell me why you're here._))

_He… called me…_

((He?))

The boy's eyes dimmed.

((_He?_))

With a snarl the Majin pursued his prey, a mind weak with physical peril. But rather than wallow in the confines of the flesh the mind fled, the prey slipped past, and the Majin was left with the slack form of an unconscious child.

"Stop" was the frustrated command. Goku obeyed.

The Majin scanned furiously about the _unseen,_ the _unfelt._ ((Where did you go, young hero? And who _called _you here?))

* * *

A hallway.

His first instinct is to feel his throat, still throbbing. His second is to panic. _Where…?_

It is… a hallway. A normal hallway, something from a generic hotel. Blasé wallpaper, blasé carpet, blasé end table with dusty blasé flowers drooping out of a dime store vase.

_Where _am _I?_

_I passed out. It's a dream. Or maybe I'm dead? If this is Heaven… it isn't much._

Goten's eyes wander to the left, the right – unadorned walls, not even light fixtures, except for a single cobwebbed dome light tacked onto the ceiling. Behind him is the same scene: an identical end table, an identical flower display, nudged up against an identical wall. But on either side of him are doors…

Doors? _More _doors?

They are plain, dark oak, fitted with a generic brass knob. But the left door is inset with a small blue gem at eye-level; to the right snarls a curled snake, burnt red into the varnished wood.

He ponders this a minute. What sort of bizarre place…? Unless this is _Babidi, _Babidi testing him – or maybe he had dreamt even going into space at all, maybe he got hit by a bus and went into a coma, dreaming about actually accepting that quest he had been avoiding half his life.

So, if he was in a coma – which door led to the light at the end of the tunnel?

_Oh, fine, _he decides with a snort. He grabs the blue-gem's door knob.

But…

_In the room there is a child. Lonely as they all are, desperate as they all are, but consumed by fear. Fear of the world beyond the room, for only punishment awaited there, and Juujen could not face punishment once more, already his plan failed, but what plan was that? Punishment, pain allotting more pain. His plan, the unknown plan, the desperate plan, it failed. So he sits and he waits and he fears—_

Goten pulls away as if stricken.

It is not the right door.

Only one other choice. His fingers brush the dusty knob:

_In the desert desperation looms. Sorrow and a sea of glass. The cinder dims, without its life – without its love – the thrill of fight, the thrill of freedom, that which he has not tasted for eternity. In the desert insanity quivers, the dying fire quivers, Okiri quivers—_

Okiri.

_Okiri. _

The name startles him with its power. Its power lent from a memory: a distant dream, and the wind biting at his face in the arms of a monster-but-not, as words fade away… '_Don't forget us… Don't hate us._'

He stares at the door and the mysteries contained within it. "Okiri. You're… you're the one who called me, aren't you?"

_A part of the whole._

The boy steadies himself, twists the knob, and pushes…

"_Why so furious? The one you look for is long dead."_

Soft grass beneath his feet, but hot sun on his neck. Goten is disoriented by abrupt contrast: the ground is soft but the air is hard, baking wind snapping at his face, summoning sweat to his face.

He opens his eyes before he realizes they had been closed.

A desert: it is as he saw, or foresaw, or maybe it was part of a dream long ago? _In the desert, insanity quivers… _Beneath his feet is a short-lived strip of grass – the frail blades quickly collapse into unquenchable sand, sand which stretches to the horizon. But at the horizon something odd: he has to squint past the glare. Shards…

Colors fade and blur and leap and collide, sharp corners and smooth curves. It's a sea of shards. Glass shards. Mountains of glass, climbing higher and higher, jagged translucent panes rising in unison towards the stars. Scratching the heavens. It's like a surreal painting, the normal landscape torn apart by the bizarre, the fantastic.

The sea of glass gleams. To his right is a tree, yearning for the heavens with its black and naked limbs, yearning just as everything else is in this barren landscape… He reaches back for the door on instinct, for a comforting touch of that last link to a somewhat sane world, but it is gone. He whirls about with a stricken expression. The door is _gone._ There is no wall, no door, no snake emblem. Only the brief spat of grass and then more desert, endless desert, until the hot white sky swallows it whole. A faint hopelessness grips him – everywhere, this landscape speaks only of _no escape._

"What is this place?" he wonders aloud.

In answer is a harsh 'pop': he spins towards the noise at the ready for monster or Majin or both, but meets only the tree. The tree afire. It crackles and snaps as blue fire seizes first one branch, then another, then another. Where did the fire come from? No answer. No smoke, either – and the spindly branches do not glow red or perish in ash. Although the fire continues to consume, the tree continues to persist, refusing to subside into the inhuman force that has overcome it.

_It's kind of metaphorical, _he supposes, thinking his mother would be proud of him for thinking analytically. "You may look like your father but that doesn't mean you have to _think _like him," she had lectured him once. "You could be just as smart as…" And her voice had faded, there. She came back strong. "As smart as Einstein! The next Newton, the next Galileo—"

_Metaphorical. Could it be that Gohan put this here? Wherever here is?_

"A sea of glass. Okay. Uhm, glass, transparency… Fire, destruction, um…"

"Hell?"

The voice startles him into a quick stumble-step. He falls into a fighting pose, his fists clenched tight, teeth gritted. Just as quickly he is relaxing, falling back with eyes wide. "…Gohan."

And it _is _Gohan. Just as he remembered, tall and young and tired. Not cold, ruthless eyes and harsh Cheshire grins – a soft, lonely look and cautious stance.

The real Son Gohan cocks his head to the side. "My voice reminds you of an enemy. But my face reminds you of something else? Who is Gohan?"

"No," says Goten faintly. "You aren't, you're… you're Okiri, aren't you?"

"Maybe," his older brother's shadow replies. "The name seems familiar."

"You called for me. Don't you remember? You brought me here!" Goten glances aside, to the burning tree, to the boundless hard-edged sea. "To free you, right? That's why you called me!"

"Called you? I don't even know you," responds Okiri doubtfully.

"You don't remember." Goten's excitement fades.

"It's been so long since anyone came here. I can't remember anyone coming here before…"

"I came to free you," he reiterates. "But…" The idea seems abruptly foolish. He takes a step back. "But I don't even know what you are. Who you are."

Okiri smiles bitterly but says nothing in return.

The adolescent presses a palm to his forehead, forcing a disbelieving laugh past gritted teeth. "I made it all the way here and you don't even remember me…" This imprisoned fragment of Son Gohan does not apologize or offer platitudes: he stands with arms loose at his sides, expression one of impatience. His black gi shimmers faintly as the burning tree's light dances across it. Goten returns with vigor: "You called me here. Why?"

"I can't remember."

"You can't or you _won't?_" No reply; Goten scowls in frustration. "You must remember _something! _The tournament, or, ah, Earth? Me, as a kid?"

A blank stare.

"You have to remember _home_, Okiri! Mom, Dad, Piccolo? Earth! Home!"

"I have no home. Only enemies," Okiri replies vaguely.

"You did! You will! If you'll just tell me how…"

"If I knew how I would not be here!" The sharp retort throws Goten into silence. He pauses in his rush of thoughts to study the older halfbreed's face. The sorrow there pains him. Okiri looks away, as if irritated by his sympathy, and continues: "I am of no use to you. I am only a shadow, a piece of—" His voice falters. "A piece of… I don't know. I can't remember."

Desperation and frustration prick at the corners of Goten's eyes. "You have to remember, Okiri! You saved Mom from Babidi, you made the meadow glow to wake up Dad—You _saved _us, you saved all of us! You nearly killed yourself to save us! Why don't you _remember?_"

Okiri seizes him by the shoulders, anger flashing across his features. "_Stop._ If you keep talking you will call _him _here. I can't remember while he watches—"

"Are you scared?" Goten pulls away with equal anger, certain the shade refers to Babidi. "Are you a coward, now?"

"Live in this world for eternity. Live without dreams or hopes or memories. Live and tell me, then, that you are not afraid," replies the soul harshly.

The child's anger wilts. "I'm sorry." This passive reply earns a look of surprise from Okiri, as though it is incomprehensible. At once memory burst over him:

(_you'd… cry for me?_)

The smell of blood and brine, the sound of his brother's labored breathing. He hadn't died then, he _isn't _dead now… Goten focuses on the halfbreed with galvanized determination. "I promised I wouldn't forget you, and I didn't, even after everyone else had. I might be the only one who _can_. I'm gonna save you, I just have to figure out how!"

A slight shake of the head: _I cannot tell you how._

Goten glances about the desolate, surreal landscape. "Just tell me: Can you be saved?"

"I don't know."

"If I saved you, if I got rid of Babidi, could you be _whole _again?"

"Whole?" Okiri repeats deftly. Then, softly: "Were we whole?"

"Once. Once you were—everything." Goten struggles with his locked tongue. "To Mom, and to Dad. They loved you. And you did amazing things. You saved a lot of people…" He shakes his head, withdrawing the empty words. "You're a good person, Okiri. Gohan. You don't deserve to be trapped here."

A misty look filters into the elder brother's dark eyes: "We are here because we failed…"

"You're here because you fought. You're _still a good person,_" Goten presses, watching this change with intrigue.

"I fought but…" He frowns, eyes darkening. "But I knew it was for nothing. I knew I would be here, I knew we would lose—"

"For us, you fought for _us. _You won, too. And we're gonna save you," is the adamant reply.

"You'll save Gohan," Okiri replies staunchly.

"And _you. _You're a part of Gohan, too—"

"A part. Only a part."

Goten takes pause, confused. "A part of the whole."

"I will always be a part."

"No, Babidi's just broken all of you up, once he's gone you'll be _whole—_"

A sad smile. "Will I be? No. To be whole, we must be apart. But to be whole—" Confusion, determination. "To be whole. That is what I sought once. Long ago. But then…" The halfbreed rubs his nose, pressing his eyes closed. When he focuses upon Goten his voice is dreamlike, dazed. "You want to know if we can be saved?"

The boy stares at him cautiously. "Yes."

Silence is followed by trance-like words: "…We can. We wait. We have always waited."

A howl of wind shatters the surreal silence. The flames dancing across the tree's bough roar afresh, delighted to be infused with fresh oxygen. A fine haze of grit drifts into the air, to be hurled along, stinging at every bit of exposed skin. A queer whistling noise echoes through the sea of glass.

Okiri turns to him with a morose expression, eyes sharp and keen once more. "I shouldn't have done that. He comes…"

"I can't be here," replies Goten nervously, raising his voice; the wind beating upon him only adds to his feeling of utter exposure. He shields his eyes with an upheld arm. "If he finds me here…"

"Your friend comes for you," replies Okiri. "I felt him. Saab, wasn't it?" With abrupt seriousness he grips the youth's wrist. "Without the gods' mark, we cannot wait forever—"

Something tugs at Goten's consciousness. His form begins to dissolve as his own body, his real body, beckons him.

Okiri hurls his voice over the increasingly furious wind, the sharply stinging sand: "Why I did what I did, why I fought for so long… I didn't do it to save myself. I realize that now. It was for Gohan. He deserves freedom – he deserves to live, to be with good-hearted people like you. Please, save him. _That _is why I called you here…"

"I will," Goten shouts.

The gale screeches; the adolescent dissolves into swirls of sand. Okiri remains, and whispers to the howling wind: "All of this, for you… Does that make me whole?"

The gale swallows his words, snuffing out the tree's flames.

Retribution descends.

Memories fade.

Okiri is alone in eternity, with the darkness, with the desperation. But he has begun to think he is whole; he clings to the idea doggedly, fearfully, as if it will dissolve as Gohan's little brother had. He guards it against the abrasive sands and his furious master. That one fragile idea…

_Does that make me whole?_

* * *

In that strange place between sleep and waking, he feels the faintest touch of the odd old Kanassan. Before he can be forced into waking he latches on to the presence, and presses his confused thoughts: _What does that mean? 'To be whole, we must be apart?'_

There is an imperceptible pause as the Kanassan processes these questions. ((…This was the soul of Okiri speaking?))

_Yeah, he said… he said he wanted to be whole._

((Three souls cannot share one mind, one personality. Only one can be 'whole'.))

_If I defeat Babidi… If I make Gohan whole again…_

((These "fragments", Okiri and Juujen. Although they coexisted before, they cannot coexist forever; they were never meant to share Gohan's life…))

_If I make Gohan whole, will they die?_

((It is impossible to know.))

_If I just kill everything that made my brother good…_

((You may very well kill all of him…))

_Then why should I _try?

((Would you rather he remain as he is? Would you rather those two souls remain imprisoned?))

A frustrated grunt was his reply. His eyes were already open, but the Kanassan's last thought lingered: ((Fight well. It will be your last opportunity.))

He groaned and lurched forward. He had been slumped against one of the metal columns. The awkward position drove pins of discomfort down the length of his back.

In the brief disorientation of waking he was startled to find his brother's face abruptly inches from his own; he jerked back, striking his head into the column with a resounding '_pi-ing_'. "Back with us, I see," Babidi greeted in his mockingly cheerful tone. Goten eyed the sickening facsimile of his brother with blatant disgust.

After a satisfied nod Babidi straightened, striding the few paces to the steps before taking a demure seat. Goku had disappeared into the shadows; Goten sat in tense discomfort, prepared for an iron grip around his neck at any moment. His host continued his casual speech with irritating calm. "I've been thinking a long time about what to do with you, kiddo. Or should I call you 'little brother'?" Stony silence; Babidi shrugged amiably – or as amiably as the Majin could. Each innocent gesture ran thick with underlying violence. "Yes, there's always the epic final battle, I'm fond of that idea, very dramatic, but I also thought there might be a poetic justice to having dear Dad just snap your neck as soon as you walked in the door. That seemed a bit too quick, though, no fun at all." The briefest distraction; the Majin glances aside, muttering something beneath his breath, before returning with that nauseating Cheshire grin. "You see, the real problem is you're just too much _trouble _to take on. No offense, but a little punk like you, you're just far more trouble then you're worth, especially for an old man like me." A sardonic grin. "Yes, I may look young…"

He allowed gracious pause for Goten to laugh or at least snicker. Silence was the youth's retort. Another shrug from the parasite. "But alas. So many ways to kill you, and only one opportunity. This requires much consideration." From thin air a pale ivory staff, nearly as tall as Goten, appeared in the magician's hand; perhaps he just pulled it from behind a column. Goten had not been watching closely. He watched now, however, as the staff cut a wide and elegant arc, spinning in his brother's agile stolen fingers. The staff jerked to a stop and struck the stone, a startling, reverberating noise. "For the moment, I thought we might chat. So! Guests first. I see a few burning quandaries in that vacuous mind of yours."

For a long moment it seemed as though Goten would not reply; in fact he was struggling to find a succinct enough question. He settled with a simple one, hissing through clenched teeth: "Why are you doing this?"

"Oh, how creative. Don't they all ask that?" the Majin replied. "I'm flattered. That marks me as a true villain, doesn't it – when the young hero asks that."

"What are we to you?" Goten's voice grew stronger, despite his bruised throat and utter disgust.

"You would waste your precious breath asking that?" He barked laughter, colder than the stone tomb they stood in. "You're strong. Even better, you're a dying race – already dead, really. Who would combat you? The Kai, perhaps, but not everyday beings such as your beloved humans or Ludlu's Celar. The Saiyans, you surviving Saiyans, hold that last power of a bygone era, when the gods fought amongst and against mortals – when those bodies became a conduit of the gods _themselves._"

The youth stared back, uncomprehending. "Conduits?"

"I'm not keen to offer a history lesson," replied Babidi cheerfully. He leapt to his feet, pacing as he spoke. "You'll have to trust me. It's beside the point. The point being you Saiyans were endowed, allotted one could say, a certain power. And when that capricious brat Freeza killed you all off, that power condensed, to be inherited by you, and more importantly by your brother. You are… relics." He twirled the staff in his fingers, apparently thinking, or was it reminiscing? Goten realized he didn't really know how old this monster was. At last the stolen eyes refocused. "There is also a certain sentimental item your brother was keeping for me."

"What's that supposed to mean?" He briefly recalled the sea of glass, the corridor – but also the fingers around his neck, which made him silence the thought.

"Nothing to you." He tapped the staff against Goten's cheek. "Don't have much life left, anyway."

"So why shouldn't I die enlightened?" responded Goten cautiously, searching through his vocabulary for some of those rare high-class words he had gleaned from dry textbooks and Trunks' attempts at the intellectual life.

"Affairs of past millennia don't concern little fools such as yourselves. Even you long-living Saiyans know nothing of a Majin life. I have seen the rise and fall of a thousand empires—"

"But you died," interjected Goten. "You're on borrowed time. You died seven years ago."

"Incorrect. I am quite alive. Despite your own opinions this body is _mine_. It was meant for me, it was why—" A faint snarl briefly interrupted the Majin's stoicism, and he cut off his own sentence.

Goten's fury had risen in return. "It was never yours. You stole it from him!"

"Cultivated it. I trained him."

"_Tortured_ him."

"Raised him."

"You kept him prisoner then, as you do now!"

Abruptly Babidi ceased to humor him. The staff struck his shoulder, pinning him to the column. Goten gripped the frigid metal with an ineffectual hand. Eyes empty and frigid fixed him immobile. His brother's voice had lost its congeniality. "Now how would you know that, young hero?"

"I guessed," the adolescent lied without consideration. "You can't get rid of him entirely, or—"

"Or _what?_ You think I need that pitiful conscience? That revolting, simpering weakness?" With a final shove which shot pain throughout his right shoulder in brief sparks, the halfbreed stepped away. "You are a foolish young hero. Nothing like your brother or father. I realized that back when you were a child. I had hoped, briefly, that you would grow out of it, developed some insecurity… But alas, no such luck. That's quite alright. You'll make fair practice."

The Majin settled back onto the steps, leaning against a column. Goten watched him warily, but the previous rage seemed to have faded. "Do you find it ironic that Earth would gather such powers?" said Babidi, conversational once again. "Vegeta, your father, both unusually strong. And my father deposited Majin Buu there. He had a theory—"

"I don't care." Goten's voice was cold.

"A theory that Earth possesses a Gate to the Other World," he finished in spite. "You were so curious before."

"Monsters like you ruined my home, and my father. He died for it – twice."

"Three times. Or would you not consider this death?" Babidi smiled, and his guest shuddered in return. The magician plowed onward. "And didn't you ever wonder why? Why it attracted all the good and bad this mortal realm had to offer?"

"No."

"Well. It's minds like that that ruin progress." But Babidi shrugged. "What discussion would you prefer?"

"I don't want to talk to you."

"Alright. I supposed I should kill you, then." The Cheshire grin returned. "But it was a lovely chat, wasn't it?"

* * *

Finis

* * *


End file.
